


Back Home For Keeps

by WhiteLadyoftheRing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[1940's AU] Mary Margaret had never believed in love, but when at last it finally comes tumbling into her life in the form of a handsome mechanic named David, their whole world is turned upside down by the war encroaching from Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always walk when you can.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an edit made by belledearie on Tumblr.
> 
> Title taken from the WWII ad campaign by Community/Oneida.
> 
> All chapter titles taken from WWII propaganda/slogans (mostly American).
> 
> ***Thank you, Angie, for all the work you do as a beta!***

**Always walk when you can.**

 

_Dearest Step-mother,_

_I’m sorry to hear that my recent career endeavors are having a negative impact on the ‘family name’. But I would also like to point out that this ‘family name’ is_ not yours _. Father has been gone for nearly two years now, and while I appreciate all you have done for me in the wake of his passing, I think it is time that we amiably part ways. Our interests are no longer aligned and I believe it is in everyone’s best interests._

 

_No need to respond,_

_Mary Margaret._

_October 10, 1941_

 

_PS: If you would kindly stop sending wealthy suitors to my door, it would be much appreciated._

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret is decidedly not in the mood for chauvinistic pig-headery. No, not one bit. Her whole life has been spent enduring endless lectures regarding the do’s and don’ts of being a lady (most of which amounted to ‘do nothing and let the men handle it’). First her father, then her step-mother, and now every busy-body on the street who thought it their place to tell her what to do.

 

And so she’s finally hit her limit when her best friend rolls her eyes and admits, “Bastard tried to feel me up.”

 

Mary Margaret seethes. “Just out of the blue?”

 

“Not quite,” Ruby amends, wiping a rag over the bar. “Followed me around for the first half of my shift, trying to buy me a drink. Apparently ‘no, I’m working’, ‘not interested’, and ‘I’m engaged’ weren’t enough ‘cause then his hands started wandering.”

 

“And you didn’t hit him?”

 

“Granny says we can’t afford to lose any more business,” says Ruby regretfully.

 

“The nerve. Wish I could give this idiot a piece of my mind.”

 

“Well, he’s right over there,” Ruby jokes, indicating a group of friends on the opposite side of the restaurant, laughing over a few beers. “Birthday boy and everything. Name’s Nolan, I think.”

 

“Stay here. I’ll handle this.”

 

“Mary Mar-”

 

But it’s too late, because Mary Margaret is already storming over to the raucous party with all the grace and deadliness of the lady she was raised to be. “Hey boys,” she smiles, but her voice is anything but inviting as she plants her hands on her hips and stares them down. “Hear we’ve got a birthday boy over here?”

 

A few of the men, one or two beers past tipsy already, prod a handsome young man with blond hair and blue eyes. He shoves them away with a chuckle. Funny, _he_ doesn’t seem as drunk as the rest. Definitely not helping his case. He raises his hand with a grin. “Guilty as charged.”

 

“Mary Margaret!” Ruby is behind her, and it neither surprises nor deters her.

 

Mary Margaret smiles sweetly. “Happy birthday then,” she says, and clocks him across the face. The rest of the men look shocked at first, and as he looks at her, reeling, she notices that her grandmother’s ring seems to have left a cut on his chin.

 

“What was that for?” he exclaims, pressing his fingertips to the cut and grimacing as they come back bloody.

 

“For getting handsy with my friend,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.

 

“Mary Margaret, no--”

 

“What? That wasn’t me.”

 

“Then who was it?” she demands. “Your evil twin?”

 

“Well, actually--”

 

He doesn’t get further than that, as she rolls her eyes and punches him again for being a smart-ass.

 

“Mary Margaret!” Ruby yells, loud enough to draw her attention this time, and as she turns, she looks past her friend to see a man almost identical to the one she’d just hit, talking up a pretty blonde at the bar.

 

“Oh …” she says dumbly.

 

“That would be my brother. James.” She turns back to the man she just hit to see him rubbing at his jaw, his buddies falling over themselves with laughter. “I’m David. David Nolan.”

 

Oops, she thinks. But honestly, what were the chances? Evil twins (or even twins at all) are few and far between, after all. She offers an apologetic smile first to Ruby and then to David. “Sorry, David. Are you okay?”

 

“Nothing a few shots won’t fix.”

 

She snorts. “Right,” she says sarcastically. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

 

“Your name might be nice.”

 

“Mary Margaret,” she replies, then winces as she notices that the cut on his chin is bleeding more than she’d expected. It’ll scar for sure. She hands him an extra napkin from the table to help stop the bleeding.

 

“Mm, that didn’t seem to help as much as I’d hoped,” he says, his confidence growing. “Maybe you should let me buy you a drink then.”

 

His friends wait expectantly for a response.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” she retorts, then turns to Ruby for a rescue, but it seems her friend has run off to fill some orders. Damn. She is on the clock after all. But still, damn.

 

“Even after you hit me on my birthday? I think it’s the least you could do.”

 

“I think it was the least I could do to aim for your face and not _elsewhere_.”

 

One of the men guffaws and jabs the guy next to him in the ribs.

 

“Ouch!” he gasps in mock offense, pressing the hand not against his chin to his chest. “That hurts. Really, I think it’s the least you could do. I could even ice your knuckles for you.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you a real Prince Charming?”

 

He grins. “So what’ll it be?”

 

It looks like the blood is soaking through the first napkin and she really does feel bad now. As far as she knows, this David hasn’t done anything wrong. As silly as it is, she’s sure her conscience will nag her about this in days to come if she doesn’t do what she can to apologize. She sighs in defeat. “Fine. But just one.”

 

\--

 

One drink turns into two and David’s friends have already stumbled out the door, the buxom blonde from earlier on his brother’s arm.

 

“So your father owns some big aircraft company and you work as a car mechanic?”

 

“Step-father,” he corrects her, running a hand over his still-aching jaw. The waitress - Ruby - managed to come up with some dressings to bandage him up, and a glass of ice for Mary Margaret’s reddening knuckles. “And he doesn’t own it, he’s just really important.”

 

“But you work as a mechanic.” Mary Margaret doesn’t seem to be judging him. Quite the opposite. In fact, she seems more intrigued than anything, eyes never leaving his as he rambles nervously on and on about his life.

 

He wonders vaguely if it’s worth telling her that he’d worked on his _real_ father’s farm until he just couldn’t maintain it any longer, but settles for a simpler truth for now. “I want to be veterinarian. But I’ve got to save up money first.”

 

He sees the wheels turning, the connections firing in her mind. “Because your step-father cut you off,” she says slowly, looking to him for confirmation. “For not working for him.”

 

He nods.

 

“Good for you.”

 

Two drinks turn into three and they’re the last patrons in the restaurant, watching as Ruby turns the empty chairs up onto the tables.

 

“Wait wait wait,” he says, alcohol finally making his mind a little fuzzy. “You mean you’re _the_ ‘Snow White’? From the radio?”

 

A light tinge of blush across her cheeks is all the confirmation he needs.

 

“I was a huge fan of yours!”

 

“Oh, come on.” She’s trying to shrug it off as if it’s nothing when it is _definitely something_. “It was just a local radio show.”

 

“But you were brilliant!”

 

She shrugs, drawing her finger in a ring over the condensation on her beer bottle. “I was okay.”

 

“You were more than okay,” he insists, remembering the way her voice would fill the garage as he worked. “Why did you quit?”

 

“Needed something to pay the bills,” she says evasively, then looks up at him with a sad smile.

 

“And the radio didn’t do that?”

 

“No it did, but -- it was my father’s dream. Not mine. After he passed, I realized I was a fool for thinking he wouldn’t be happy if to hear I was only doing it for him. So I quit.”

 

His heart aches at that, remembering the exact moment when he’d realized that same truth following his own father’s passing. “Good for you,” he says, echoing her words from earlier, but a tad more reverently. Their eyes meet, and his breath catches in his throat at how _beautiful_ she is. Something in his expression must betray him, though, because she looks away shyly. He clears his throat, and tries to divert the conversation to a happier tone. “So what do you do now?”

 

“I’m a pilot.”

 

The words come just as the cool beer hits his tongue and he almost spits it back out, having not expected that. “A pilot? But you’re a girl!” He internally smacks himself for that, realizing his mistake a moment too late.

 

She bristles. “Woman,” she corrects, a single eyebrow raised in challenge. “Is that a problem?”

 

“No no no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just--” He fumbles desperately for the right words, because the last ones he’d come up with were definitely the _wrong_ ones. “That’s a big change from radio singer.”

 

“That’s the point.”

 

He lets that thought sink in for a moment. This girl - _woman_ , he corrects himself - is certainly full of surprises. Though he supposes that should have been obvious when she marched right up to him and caught him with a mean right hook. “A pilot, huh? What do you fly?”

 

“Crop dusters,” she says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Like I said, pays the bills.”

 

He can’t say he isn’t impressed, and it definitely reads on his face. “Maybe you’ll have to take me for a ride sometime then.”

 

And there’s that blush again, spreading across her fair cheeks.

 

Three drinks turn into shots, and Ruby is taking last call and counting the cash from the night, just within eavesdropping distance.

 

“Now we get to the really important question,” he says, the liquor numbing everything and making his tongue feel just a little thick. “Are you going steady with anyone?”

 

She splutters over her shot, but recovers with an easy comeback. “Oh, I see Prince Charming is rearing his ugly head again.”

 

“Ugly?”

 

“Okay, maybe not so ugly,” she amends, grinning at him. She’s silent for a moment, just one measly, tiny, torturous, unending moment. “No, I’m not. But I don’t think that whole ‘true love’ thing is for me.”

 

He frowns. “Why not?”

 

“Doesn’t exist. All that stuff we read about as kids? Love at first sight? The magical first kiss? It’s all fantasy. Marriages are essentially business transactions.”

 

He grimaces at that. Or at the whiskey. Probably the whiskey. (Good god could this woman drink. He couldn’t let her show him up, but he’s definitely going to be feeling this in the morning. Though on the bright side, the pain in his jaw is practically nonexistent at this point.) “Now you sound like my step-father.”

 

She waits expectantly for him to elaborate.

 

“Kathryn Hicks,” he groans. “Her father’s the richest man in the state. They call him the ‘Midas of the West’. And Albert - my step-father - needs investors. He’s intent on one of us marrying her, and, well, you’ve seen James in action now. I’m sure you can guess who he _really_ expects to go through with it.”

 

She smirks. “See? You just proved me right. Business transactions.”

 

“Hey now,” he says, leaning close to her. “I didn’t say I was actually going to _do_ it.”

 

“And why not?”

 

This is it, he thinks. All or nothing, Nolan. “I’m waiting for true love,” he explains, putting on his most dashing smile.

 

She snorts.

 

“Sorry, kids.” They look up to find Ruby standing on the other side of the bar in front of them, arms folded across her chest. “Bar’s closed. Time to take this party elsewhere.”

 

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Prince Charming,” says Mary Margaret, holding out a hand for him to shake.

 

He accepts it, clasping it firmly, not delicately as he would with other women. There is nothing ‘delicate’ about this woman, and he loves it. “You don’t want me to walk you home?”

 

She opens her mouth to say something, but Ruby cuts her off. “Don’t wait for me, hon. I’m staying with Granny tonight.”

 

There’s a wordless exchange between the two friends, almost solemn, but full of understanding. Mary Margaret sighs, and finally turns back to him. “You still don’t need to walk me home.”

 

“I could argue that as a gentleman I should insist, but I doubt that will do much to convince you. However, it’s still my birthday, and you did punch me _twice_ \--”

 

She glances to the clock. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it _isn’t_ your birthday anymore.”

 

Damn. He was hoping she wouldn’t bring that up. “Would it do me any good to insist my brother was born just before midnight and I just after?”

 

She gives him a look that he finds both frightening and maddeningly alluring all at once. Ruby snickers. “You’re just going to keep trying until I cave, aren’t you?”

 

“How’d you guess?”

 

“Fine,” she relents, then leans over the bar to hug her friend. “Good night Ruby. And send Granny my love.”

 

“You too, and I will,” says Ruby, returning the embrace. “Be careful.” She pulls away and eyes David warningly. “And you better not start channeling your brother’s lecherous tendencies in the next hour or so.”

 

“On my best behavior,” he promises, then offers his arm to Mary Margaret. “M’lady?”

 

She rolls her eyes but accepts it regardless, leaning into him as he leads her out of the restaurant. He can smell the combination of her perfume and a long day’s work lingering on her, and he relishes it just as he does the weight of her hand in the crook of his elbow.

 

He’s falling hard and it has barely even been a few hours.

 

Good god.

 

Help.

 

\--

 

They take the scenic route. As scenic as they can manage, at least, wandering through the park as they stumble over one another arm-in-arm, finding their footing amid the haze of alcohol. The sky is clear, revealing an infinite expanse of stars above them as Mary Margaret presses more firmly against David, drawing warmth from him.

 

“I really am sorry,” she says, breaking the silence of their walk. “About your chin, I mean.”

 

He uses his free hand to touch the bandage. “Not the worst I’ve had.”

 

“At least you have a good story to go along with it?”

 

He laughs, a deep, joyful sound that rumbles through his arm and into her body. “Oh, yes. ‘I was just out having drinks on my birthday, minding my own business, when out of nowhere this beautiful woman comes up and decks me. _Twice_.’ ” He grins mischievously at her. “ ‘And then she thought I was so _charming_ that she fell madly in love with me.’ ”

 

Charming is right, she thinks as she scowls at him and punches him half-heartedly in the bicep.

 

“Ow! Why so violent?”

 

She looks up again to find his eyes alight with amusement. “You are insufferable, you know that?”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

Completely insufferable, and yet she’s in no hurry to leave his presence. The majority of men sneer and scorn her for her empowered attitude and less-than-traditional ambitions. Some are threatened, though they refuse to admit it. The rest smile condescendingly and pat her hand, patronizing her with an ‘oh how cute, she thinks she can do a man’s job’. And then there’s David. David who grins in amusement and listens enraptured as she describes the wind in her hair and the thrill of flying over open fields. Insufferable, yes, but also _different_ , and that’s certainly something.

 

Gazing up at the stars, she wonders how strange it is that here they are, two strangers on a moonlit stroll, kindling some small spark between them while halfway around the world blood and death run rampant, just waiting to take over their small corner of peace. It’s unfair, she thinks, to stand by and do nothing while others lose their lives, and yet she dreads the inevitable day that the war finally finds them.

 

She wonders briefly if she should fake him out and have him drop her off at some random building instead of her own. He does seem rather smitten, and the last thing she needs is a lovesick puppy turning up on her doorstep every night. But her legs seem to have taken on a will of their own, and soon they’re exiting the park, making their way up the road to her apartment. Their pace is easy, neither of them in much of a hurry for the night to end, but at last they come to a stop in front of her building.

 

She pulls her hand from his arm, and meets his eyes briefly as she searches in her purse for her keys. “I suppose this is goodbye, _Prince Charming_ ,” she says with a teasing note in her voice.

 

“I told you,” he says, folding his arms in an apparent attempt at sounding serious, though the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “My name’s David.”

 

She wrinkles her nose, finally pulling free her keys. “Nah, I think I like ‘Charming’ better.” She hesitates a moment, glancing regretfully at his bandaged jaw. “Sorry again about the--” she gestures toward him. “But you really should keep that brother of yours on a leash.”

 

He chuckles. “I’ll work on it. And I’m sure I deserved it for _something_.”

 

“Regardless, it wasn’t a very nice birthday present. And I am sorry for that.”

 

He raises his eyebrows. It’s a challenge - she knows a challenge when she sees one. “Then what sort of present _do_ you have in mind?”

 

She wants to blame it on the alcohol, but she’s always held her liquor well, and the chilly night air on their walk home has all but sobered her up. Maybe she can blame it on his infuriatingly charming smile, she thinks as she rises up on her toes, cups his cheek in her palm (mindful of his tender jaw) and presses her lips to his.

 

He returns the kiss carefully, one hand ghosting over her waist.

 

Yes, definitely blaming it on the smile.

 

“Good night, _Charming_ ,” she whispers as she pulls away.

 

“Good night, _Snow_ ,” he says, an emphasis on her old stage name.

 

She fits the key easily into the lock and slips inside, pausing with the door cracked when he calls out to her.

 

“What if I want to see you again?”

 

“Then you’ll find me,” she replies, her smile bordering on a challenge.

 

He smiles back, eyes gleaming. “Always.”


	2. Save fuel for war.

**Save fuel for war.**

 

_My darling Ruby,_

_I don’t have much time before my next train leaves, but I couldn’t wait to write you. I miss you so much, and all I can think about is the day I will finally make you my wife. We’re almost there, baby. Just hang on. My father and I will be home soon enough. Just three more weeks until the start of the rest of our lives._

 

_Yours always and forever,_

_Peter._

_Received October 11, 1941._

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret isn’t the type to worry herself over men. It isn’t worth it. Ruby tells her she has an especially pessimistic outlook on life, but she prefers to call it ‘realistic’. She hasn’t exactly spent her life surrounded by examples of healthy romantic relationships. Perhaps her parents had it at one point - that spark - but as all things had, it faded with her mother’s health. Her step-mother - Regina - had followed soon after, a marriage of mutual gain and convenience, never of love. Truth be told, Mary Margaret isn’t sure she knows _how_ to love.

 

Which is precisely why she doesn’t worry herself over men.

 

Precisely.

 

She’s merely giving the apartment a good scrubbing - sweeping under the rugs, dusting above the cabinets and polishing the floors.

 

Perfectly normal Saturday morning behavior.

 

No thoughts of men here at all. Nope.

 

Ruby comes sweeping in about half past noon, shrugging out of her deep red coat and sinking into the plush armchair in the living room. Mary Margaret peeks out of the bathroom to greet her, wiping the grime off her hands and onto her skirt. “How’s Granny?” she asks as she comes to perch on the ottoman in front of her friend.

 

“Better. For now,” Ruby replies solemnly, then grins. “How was your date?”

 

“It was not a date.”

 

“He bought you three beers and two shots. Nevermind you couldn’t stop making bedroom eyes at each other for half a second. It was a date. To be honest, I took my time coming home today _just in case_.”

 

“Ruby!”

 

“Don’t ‘Ruby’ me, I was just making an observation.”

 

Mary Margaret eyes her. “You know I’m not that type.”

 

“Until last night, I didn’t think you were the type to believe in love at first sight, but empirical evidence can be rather convincing.” She leans in close. “I know love when I see it, and you, my dear, are in it.”

 

“Speaking of love …” Mary Margaret turns to pull a letter from the coffee table, eager to change the topic of conversation. “This came for you today.”

 

Ruby doesn’t need any further information to know who it’s from. She never does. She snatches the envelope away and is running to her room barely five seconds later to write a response.

 

“You do realize he’ll be home by the time he gets to read any of those letters, right?”

 

“Hush you,” Ruby shoots back, and the sounds of shuffling papers are already filtering from her room as she begins to write.

 

And this is exactly why Mary Margaret rejects the notion of love. It’s a temporary emotion that makes fools of perfectly rational people.

 

(But her best friend is happy despite her grandmother’s failing health, so perhaps love isn’t all that bad.)

 

She’s musing over this idea - decidedly _not_ because some charming mechanic bought her drinks the night before - when the doorbell rings.

 

“Busy!” Ruby calls out before Mary Margaret can even ask, so she hauls herself up to answer the door.

 

It’s Lacey. A bit of a relief, she thinks, though she does feel dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Lacey French is the personal assistant to their landlord … and they’re over a week late on this month’s rent. It isn’t the first time it’s happened - after harvest there isn’t really much work for crop dusting pilots. Odd jobs and short-term opportunities don’t always pay the bills on time.

 

“You’re here for the rent,” Mary Margaret says, not bothering to play ignorant.

 

Lacey offers an apologetic smile and steps inside. “Sorry.”

 

“No no, you’re just doing your job.” Mary Margaret closes the door and starts rooting around in a drawer, before snatching up an envelope of cash and counting it. “I appreciate you coming by instead of your boss.”

 

Lacey frowns, but not unkindly. There’s absolutely nothing unkind about the young woman - a true beauty with shoulder-length auburn curls, the most harm anyone sees in her is a bit of competition for the fellows. Not Mary Margaret or Ruby, though. No, Mary Margaret has no interest in the opposite sex and Ruby is thoroughly, desperately, maddeningly attached. “Mr. Gold really isn’t so bad,” she says pointedly.

 

The envelope is still short a few bills, so she pries open the coffee tin on the shelf above her and adds the contents to the envelope. “I suppose not - after how many times he’s forgiven rent being late.”

 

“He’s really kind, if you get to know him. And besides, he says his forgiveness policy is an ‘investment in your future’. Whatever that means.”

 

“He’s always had a flair for the dramatic, hasn’t he?” Mary Margaret muses, and hands over the envelope. “This should be everything. I would say it’ll never happen again but …”

 

Lacey waves her hands in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. Times are hard, and I think he’s got a soft spot for you.”

 

Ruby emerges from her room, a sealed, addressed and kissed envelope in hand. “Sorry, I was just responding to Peter,” she says as she wraps Lacey in a warm embrace.

 

“When’s the wedding?”

 

“Three weeks from today.”

 

“Oh my god, so soon! Are you excited?”

 

“Don’t even get her started,” Mary Margaret teases, but nevertheless she’s smiling broadly.

 

“Not quite as exciting,” Lacey ventures shyly, “but I have news too.”

 

“You and Gold are engaged?” Ruby guesses, immediately followed by Mary Margaret adding, “You and Gold eloped?”

 

Lacey blushes. “No, no, nothing quite so … dramatic. I’ve … I’ve joined the Navy.”

 

Ruby balks while Mary Margaret takes a solid sixty seconds to process this information. “You … joined the Navy?”

 

“And that isn’t dramatic?”

 

“I have,” says Lacey, gaining confidence. “As a nurse. It’s only a matter of time before the war finds us and after what happened to Mr. Gold … I want to help people. I’ve always been good at books and learning, so I thought I could help.”

 

And there it is, that ever-present, nagging reminder to Mary Margaret that the world is at war around them, and she’s relatively helpless against it. But Lacey? She’s doing something about it. “Good for you,” she says, and pulls her friend into a hug, wondering what sort of bravery Lacey possesses that she herself is lacking.

 

Ruby congratulates her in kind, but swiftly changes the subject, a conspiratorial smirk creasing her face. “Did Mary Margaret tell you about her new boyfriend?”

 

Oh, boy, she thinks. Not this again.

 

\--

 

“ _Good night,_ Charming _.”_

 

“ _Good night,_ Snow _.”_

 

“David?”

 

“ _What if I want to see you again?”_

 

“ _Then you’ll find me.”_

 

“ _Always.”_

 

“David!”

 

“What?” he grouses, shaking himself from his daydream. Stupid headlight. Stupid, stupid headlight refusing to fit. It feels like he’s been replacing the thing for the better part of the day, at this point. It’s the final addition to the brand new Delahaye they’ve been working on for an exceptionally wealthy customer, and of course it’s being more difficult than the rest of the work put together. He gives it a good smack but it refuses to budge.

 

“You’ve been working on replacing that bulb for over an hour. What gives?”

  
David wipes some grease from his forehead and shifts to look up at his coworker. Sean is barely two years his junior, and yet he’s always felt some sort of deep, protective connection to him - almost like that of an older brother. The boy is just always so full of youthful hope that David fears one day his naiveté will be the death of him. “Nothing gives. That’s the problem. Damn thing doesn’t fit.”

 

Sean chuckles, kneels down and pops the offending headlight into place. “Or maybe you’re just distracted.”

 

“I am not.”

 

“Probably a girl,” Billy - the most skilled mechanic of the bunch - chimes in from the other side of the garage.

 

“Don’t do it,” Leonard adds, popping out from behind the same car Billy’s working on. “Women are nothing but trouble. Trust me.”

 

David rolls his eyes at that. Leonard is never shy to express that a woman ruined his life. David might be inclined to give his story some credence, if only he would ever bother to explain _how_. “It isn’t about her.”

 

_Her_.

 

Shit.

 

The whole lot of them burst into raucous laughter. Billy claps a hand against his thigh and points to David with a wrench. “Hah! Knew it!”

 

“So what’s her name?” Sean pries.

 

“You’d better watch out.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” David grumbles. “You three are worse than an old ladies’ knitting circle.”

 

“Oh look, he’s blushing!”

 

“Guys, stop it.”

 

“Oh, he’s got it bad,” Leonard remarks through uncontrollable laughter.

 

A familiar, heavily accented voice breaks through the laughter, quickly silencing it all together. “What’s all the racket about?”

 

David braves a glance at Marco as he steps from his office, arms folded across his chest and trying to hide his amusement beneath the stern demeanor of a boss. He isn’t sure which option is worse - being scolded for being distracted on the job, or Marco joining in on the teasing. “Nothing, Mr. Collodi. We’ll get back to work.”

 

“Oh, it’s definitely _something_ ,” says Billy. “Looks like our little David’s all grown up and got himself a girlfriend.”

 

If Marco’s expression is any indication, it seems he’s definitely about to join the Garage Knitting Circle. “A girlfriend? Well, well, well, that _is_ call for celebration.”

 

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” David insists.

 

“ _Yet_ ,” Sean chimes in.

 

Marco smiles wistfully. “Love. There’s nothing like it. What’s her name, my boy?”

 

David looks from his friends to his boss, then sighs in defeat. “Mary Margaret.”

 

Marco indicates his chin. “And she gave you that.” It’s a statement not a question.

 

David gapes. “How did you--”

 

“You started touching it when you thought of her. I believe, Mr. Nolan, that you - what was it I heard? - ‘got it bad’.”

 

And sure enough, David finds his hand stroking along his jaw - no longer bandaged but still bearing the thin red line of the cut she’d given him.

 

“And since it seems we’re no longer being productive, why don’t you all head home early? So long as the work is done on the Delahaye?”

 

“Yes sir,” David replies, grateful for the shift in conversation. “It is.”

 

“Good. You’ll lock up, yes?” Marco instructs, while his co-workers quickly pack up to leave, laughing amongst themselves and eager for an early release from work on a Saturday. “After all, you were the cause of all this.”

 

“Yes sir,” David sighs. At least the humiliation is over. For now. He’s just finishing cleaning up the tools when Marco pauses just inside the door.

 

“And Mr. Nolan?”

 

David turns. “Yes, Mr. Collodi?”

 

“Good luck with that girl of yours.” Marco winks and sets a small object on the counter.

 

And he’s gone.

 

Five minutes later, all the tools are accounted for, the paperwork is in order, and David is ready for a hot shower and a good meal. He’s halfway out the door when he sees what Marco left on the counter.

 

The key to the Delahaye.

 

_Good luck with that girl of yours._

 

Sneaky old man, he thinks as he snatches up the key.

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret smiles at the sound of laughter, barely audible over the wind rushing past them. Paige is a year younger than her usual age limit, but money’s tight and she really needs the job. Besides, she’s having the time of her life, and even if he’s a little … _off_ , her father was a friend of hers.

 

She brings the plane down easily, earning a noise of disappointment from her passenger, but as soon as the girl catches sight of her father, she’s all smiles again, tugging at her safety harness and goggles. “Papa!”

 

“Did you have fun, sweetheart?” Jefferson easily scoops her into his arms as she runs to him, lifting her feet off the ground and swinging her in a circle.

 

“It was the best! Thank you so much, Papa.”

 

“You’re welcome.” He sets her down gently and meets Mary Margaret’s eyes as she climbs from the plane herself. “Do you have anything to say to Miss Blanchard?”

 

“Oh!” Paige rushes over and hugs her too, arms wrapping quickly around her waist. “Thank you, Miss Blanchard.”

 

“You’re welcome, Paige,” she laughs, returning the embrace. “I’m glad you had fun.”

 

Jefferson approaches as well, holding out a much-too-large wad of bills. “Yes, thank you.”

 

Mary Margaret stares for a moment, then stammers, “Thank you, but that’s -- that’s far too much.”

 

“Nonsense,” he insists, pressing the money into her palm. “I know you made an exception, and --”

 

“And you’ve heard rumors,” she replies evenly. Of course, he’s heard from someone - Gold, perhaps - that she isn’t quite making ends meet, and he sees it as a duty to her father’s memory to see her taken care of.

 

“I’ve heard no such thing. You made an exception, and my daughter is happy. Please, just take it.”

 

She’s about to argue further when she catches sight of another figure making its way through the empty field.

 

David.

 

“Fine,” she relents, now too distracted to bother over it. “Just this once.”

 

“Papa, come look!” And then Paige is pulling him away to point out a rabbit scurrying through the brush.

 

Mary Margaret meets David halfway, finding him still half-covered in dirt and grease with his arms folded across his chest. She sees that the bandage on his jaw from the night before has been removed, but the cut is still visible. “You found me,” she comments, and tries to decide whether or not she’s surprised.

 

“I told you I would,” he smiles. “No matter what, I will always find you.”

 

She can’t help but smile back at that. “I don’t suppose I can ask how?”

 

“I have my ways.”

 

“I see,” she replies, grinning at his cryptic response. “So what brings _Prince Charming_ here today?”

 

“I was hoping to ask a certain princess to join me for dinner.”

 

And then he’s giving her that _look_ again. The one that’s nearly indecent in the way it makes her heart beat fast and her knees go weak. If there’s one thing she’s sure of, though, it’s that she is decidedly _not_ a weak woman, and so she folds her arms in challenge. “I’m not exactly the dinner-and-dancing type.”

 

“Indeed. I noticed.”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means that I would be disappointed to find out you were.” He offers her his hand, along with that infuriatingly charming smile from the night before. “I have something better in mind.”

 

She eyes him for a moment, wondering briefly if she should be offended that he showed up looking like something the cat dragged in, until she realizes that right now they’re probably quite the matching set. “This isn’t a date,” she warns, slipping her hand into his.

 

“It isn’t a date,” he agrees.

 

“What is it then?”

 

“An adventure.”

 

\--

 

She isn’t impressed by the car, but he didn’t really expect her to be. She is, however, impressed to find out how it came into his possession.

 

“You _stole_ it?”

 

“Borrowed,” he corrects, shifting gears.

 

“Without permission.”

 

He waves her off. “Technicalities.”

 

She huffs indignantly, but when he glances over, he finds her smiling in spite of herself.

 

The Delahaye handles even better than he’d imagined. Of course in the week it’s spent in the garage, he’s moved it around a bit, but never _this_. It’s enough to impress him, and probably every other girl on the planet besides Mary Margaret. No, the speed of a car likely has very little on the rush of actually flying.

 

“Who can even afford a car like this?”

 

“It was some old man. Kind of cryptic. Walked with a cane. Reeked of old money.”

 

The description must ring a bell with her, because she’s looking at him with a mixture of shock and amusement. “Mr. Gold?”

 

“Yeah, that’s it. You know him?”

 

She chokes on a bout of laughter. “He’s my landlord. You stole my landlord’s car.”

 

“Your landlord?” he laughs, and tries to conjure up some witty response but fails miserably, and settles for a completely unapologetic, “Woops.”

 

“I should tell you to turn around.”

 

“But?”

 

When he looks over again, her face is a mask of innocence. “But what he doesn’t know …”

 

He grins, needing no further encouragement, and revs the engine before accelerating down the back-country road. She makes a noise of surprise in response, but quickly dissolves into giggles once more.

 

The speedometer hits fifty-five miles an hour and continues rising. “Goes pretty fast, huh?”

 

“For a car,” she teases. “And such a timid driver.”

 

Timid? Him? “What? You think you can do better?”

 

“Actually …”

 

And so he pulls over and switches places with her.

 

She’s probably eating her words, he thinks as his knuckles turn white hanging onto the edge of his seat. ‘Timid’ was perhaps too kind. He’s a little too frightened to dare a glance at the speedometer, but he does catch the gleam in her eyes and the pure joy there is enough to make the near-heart attack worth it.

 

“So where are we going on this ‘adventure’?” she asks, barely slowing as she rounds a sharp curve.

 

“Take the next right.”

 

Nearly twenty minutes later, just after the sun has finished setting, they pull up to an overlook giving a panoramic view of the city. Firefly Hill, they’d called it as children. In simpler times when his father was still alive, he and James would run through the trees catching the little lightning bugs in jars for their mother to use as nightlights. It’s far too late in the year for fireflies, but the city is all lit up below them and the night is clear.

 

He’s never really courted a woman before, and besides, he’s pretty sure any prior experience would be no help with Mary Margaret whatsoever. But if the way his mother would always melt into his father’s arms here in this spot is any indication, this is an appropriate date night excursion.

 

Or not-date, as the case may be.

 

Adventure.

 

Whatever.

 

“I thought you said something about dinner,” she teases, putting on the parking brake. She doesn’t mention the view, but he takes it as a small victory that she hasn’t simply turned the car around - or worse, punched him again.

 

“I did,” he agrees, though it isn’t much. Mechanics aren’t exactly made of money, and he’d been in a bit of a rush. He pulls a paper bag out from behind his seat, hoping the sandwiches haven’t gotten too squashed in the process. “Peanut butter and jelly okay?”

 

\--

 

She’s seen the city from the air a thousand times before - at night, in the day; in sunshine and through the most miserable of storms - but she’s never really taken the opportunity to _look_. There’s too much to focus on when you’re in the air; always a job to be done, always gauges and controls and something that could go wrong.

 

So she looks now, having made some lame excuse about being cold and clambered over the gear shift to slide into the seat beside David. He curls an arm around her, and she looks out over the ridge. She sees the bright lights of the city spiraling outward into the dimmer lights of the suburbs and farmlands, sees the starlight above them and feels the gentle warmth of David’s chest against her back.

 

This is definitely a date, she thinks. But she won’t hold it against him unless he asks her to dance.

 

“How did you do it?” she asks finally, her head nestled against his neck.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Find me.”

 

“Oh come on,” he teases. “I can’t give all my secrets away.”

 

“Uh huh. Well, you could have easily gone back to the restaurant to pester Ruby, and lord knows she’d tell you in a heartbeat.”

 

He scoffs. “Too easy.”

 

“And I’m sure waiting outside my building all day long would draw too much attention from law enforcement.”

 

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”

 

“Apparently so have you.”

 

He chuckles, and she feels it reverberate through his chest as she curls more tightly against him. “If you really must know …” he says, grinning down at her. “It’s too late in the season for you to _actually_ be working the fields, so I asked around. Turns out there’s only one female crop dusting pilot in town.”

 

“You seem to know an awful lot about farming for a _prince_ ,” she quips.

 

He snorts. “My father - my _real_ father - owned a sheep farm just outside of town. Tried to keep it up and running after he died, but--” he sighs, shaking his head. “It was just too much. Sold off the animals. Had to sell off the land to my step-father. Turned it into a goddamn factory.”

 

Ouch, she thinks. She’s all too familiar with the pain of losing a parent, even more so with the frustration of someone so irreverently stepping in to replace them. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

 

“No no, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he insists. “I shouldn’t bother you with--”

 

She can’t blame it on the alcohol this time. And though his smile _is_ quite charming, it’s definitely the honest vulnerability in his voice that causes her to tilt her head and close her mouth over his, her hand cradling the back of his neck.

 

He makes a small noise of surprise, then melts into the kiss, fingertips coming up to trace the shell of her ear.

 

“Mary Margaret--” he breathes against her, and she can taste her name on his tongue as she parts his lips and angles the kiss to feel more of him. He complies eagerly, her fingers tangling into the mass of curls at the nape of his neck as he pulls her closer, helping her to shift onto his lap, her legs straddling his.

 

She pulls away for a moment, stroking her thumb over the cut on his chin, while he stares back at her, eyes dark and lips swollen. If he was charming before, then she isn’t quite sure there’s a word for what he’s causing to stir inside her now.

 

They fall easily into rhythm, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his mouth trails down the column of her throat, his hands gliding against her bare skin, up beneath the fabric of her blouse.

 

She may not be a romantic like Ruby, but she isn’t completely ignorant. So when she feels the firm bulge of his arousal pressing between her thighs, she thrusts against him. He groans against her skin, then grinds up against her in return, biting into her neck.

 

She gasps. “David--”

 

She isn’t quite sure what she was planning on saying next. Or doing. Yes, she thinks. It was probably doing, until their moment was so rudely interrupted by a knock on the car window.

 

David groans and rolls it down to reveal a police officer peering in at them with a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Everything all right here?”.

 

She isn’t sure whether to laugh or simply to die of embarrassment, but David recovers surprisingly easily, clearing his throat and replying, “Yes, officer, everything’s fine.”

 

Well, it _was_ , she thinks sourly. More than fine, in fact.

 

“Good. Then I suggest you move along.” He gives David a very pointed stare. “Wouldn’t want anything happening to such a nice vehicle.”

 

“No sir,” David responds, less sure of himself now. “Wouldn’t want that at all.”

 

“No we wouldn’t,” the officer agrees. “Have a nice night. And make sure the lady gets home safely.”

 

Mary Margaret had earned her stage name of ‘Snow White’ for her ebony locks and fair skin, but right now she’s fairly certain she’s approximately the shade of a stop sign.

 

David rolls the window back up and they look at one another for a moment, listening to the retreating footsteps of the police officer, and then the revving of his engine.

 

She’s the first to break the silence, smirking and commenting, “Quite the adventure, _Charming_.”

 

\--

 

He takes her home, and this time, makes it inside the building and to the door of her apartment.

 

“Do you -- do you want to come in?” she asks, for the first time since he met her sounding completely unsure of herself. And to be honest, after their romp in the Delahaye it takes every ounce of his self-control not to take her up on that offer.

 

“Come in?” he teases. “You act like this was a date.”

 

“It wasn’t,” she agrees quickly, grinning back at him. “I was just trying to be polite.”

 

“I see, as opposed to punching me again.”

 

“In my defense, it was an honest mistake.”

 

He chuckles. “Unfortunately, I consider ‘coming in’ something that goes along with a date, so--”

 

She cuts him off by rising up on her toes, and kissing him, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. He sighs into her, his own hands finding their way to her hips to steady her. She breaks the kiss, her forehead pressed to his. “So, when can we -- ‘not date’ again?”

 

Good lord, this woman is going to be the death of him.

 

“How does tomorrow sound?”


	3. Eat to keep healthy.

**Eat to keep healthy.**

 

_My sweet boy,_

_I hope you had a wonderful birthday. Meet me for lunch on Friday? The cafe on Third._

_With all my love,_

_Mother_

 

\--

 

Apparently, David’s ‘coming in’ rule isn’t _that_ strict, because by their next not-date, he’s made it as far as Mary Margaret’s living room couch.

 

In his defense, it isn’t exactly ‘Plan A’. The weather is downright awful; colder than it should be and rainy to boot. He’d planned a picnic - suspiciously close to a ‘date’ activity, but she’ll let it slide this time - forcing them to improvise. So they push the coffee table against the wall and spread the picnic blanket out on the floor, leaning back against the sofa as they nibble on sandwiches (and she contemplates nibbling on him), passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them.

 

“You do know I have wine glasses just ten feet away.”

 

“Ah,” he says, taking a swig straight from the bottle. “But that would make this a date.”

 

“You seem to have quite specific criteria for what constitutes a date.”  
  


He passes her the bottle, grinning. “I’ll write you a list.”

 

“That would be helpful.” She tips the bottle back, humming happily as she swallows. “So what other plans did you have for this … ‘adventure’? Surely you weren’t planning on wooing me with just a picnic.”

 

“Wooing?” he chuckles. “I’m not ‘wooing’ you at all.”

 

“Uh huh. Then what’s this supposed to be?”

 

“Well, it’s certainly not a date,” he says, but his smile says something else altogether.

 

“I thought you said ‘coming in’ constituted a date.”

 

He shrugs, accepting the wine from her again. “That was before it rained.”

 

Rolling her eyes, she snatches the bottle back from him before he can take a drink. “You never answered my question.”

 

“Hm? What question?” he says, feigning ignorance.

 

He reaches out to steal the bottle from her, but she tucks it against her side and eyes him. “About what other plans you had for this not-date?”

 

“ _Oh_. That one,” he teases. “Well, I was _hoping_ to pick up where we’d left off last night, but considering we’re in your apartment and this isn’t a date, it isn’t exactly pro--”

 

He’s a gentleman, she thinks. A real Prince Charming indeed. But she isn’t exactly a princess or a proper lady, so she cuts him off by closing the distance between them and sealing her mouth over his. He responds to her immediately, cradling her face between his palms and sighing into her as she shifts easily into his lap.

 

She pulls away, tilting her forehead to rest against his. “What were you saying?” she whispers, then lowers her head to press one delicate kiss against his neck, and then another.

 

She feels more than sees him swallow hard, and his voice reverberates through her. “I -- I don’t believe I remember.”

 

She grins. “Something about picking up where we left off last night, I think.”

 

It’s his turn to initiate the kiss, his fingers tangling in unruly curls as he draws her lower lip between his teeth. She sighs in response, and is about to make an even more un-ladylike move when they are interrupted.

 

Again.

 

She groans upon hearing Ruby’s key scrape in the lock, but doesn’t move from David’s lap. “I thought you were staying with Granny tonight,” she says in way of greeting when the door swings open.

 

Ruby pauses just inside the door, grinning as if she’s just won a bet (which Mary Margaret supposes she has). “I am. I just came back for a change of clothes.”

 

“Good to hear,” Mary Margaret replies flatly.

 

David, still pinned beneath her, dares a glance at Ruby as well. “Hi, Ruby.”

 

“David,” Ruby responds easily. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

 

Mary Margaret scowls. “Well, _actually_ \--”

 

Ruby cuts her off, mischief dancing in her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt one of Mary Margaret’s dates. They’re so few and far between.”

 

“It isn’t a date,” David chirps happily.

 

Oh boy, Mary Margaret thinks. Now they’re both in on it. Great.

 

“Oh, if that’s the case …” Ruby winks at him and makes her way over to the sofa, plopping down beside them on the edge of the picnic blanket. “I’ll take my time, then.”

 

“Ruby …”

 

Ruby’s face is a mask of innocence, even as she pinches a sandwich from the basket. “ _What_?”

 

“We were _busy_ ,” Mary Margaret states pointedly, and glances to indicate the way she’s settled on David’s lap.

 

“Oh, really?” Ruby muses, smiling innocently. “I couldn’t tell. After all, it isn’t a _date_.”

 

David and Ruby share a conspiratorial glance and Mary Margaret isn’t entirely sure if she likes her best friend and boyfriend teaming up like this.

 

Wait.

 

_Boyfriend?_

 

Maybe she’s had a little _too_ much wine.

 

“It isn’t a date,” she agrees, though her voice sounds entirely unsure even to herself.

 

“Then maybe I can move things along a bit,” Ruby says decidedly and takes a bite of her sandwich. “David, would you like to come to my wedding? It’s in three weeks, and Miss Maid-of-Honor here hasn’t bothered to decide on a guest.”

 

David is about to answer when Mary Margaret cuts him off, arms folded indignantly across her chest as she shifts to be more comfortable in his lap. “Just because he’s my guest, doesn’t mean he’s my date.”

 

“Yes, but it’s my wedding. What I say goes. And if he comes with you - _and he will come with you_ \- then he is your date.”

 

David is chuckling softly and Mary Margaret scowls at him. “Do I really have much of a choice?”

 

“Nope.” Ruby beams and bounces off toward her room, sandwich in hand.

 

\--

 

They have a picnic - a _real_ picnic this time, at a clearing in the forest on David’s lunch break. Mary Margaret spends the hour leaning back against David’s chest, sipping hot cocoa from a thermos, and David spends it hoping it’ll never end.

 

Mary Margaret sits up in his arms, looking over her shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

She shushes him, growing still and then he hears it - a soft cooing sound.

 

“Oh, it’s probably just a bird,” he muses, but she’s on her feet investigating not a moment later.

 

It is a bird, in fact. He finds her stooped over a dove caught up in the remnants of a net.

 

“It’s okay, little one,” she soothes, gently disentangling the bird.

 

It’s amazing to him, how gentle she can be when just five days ago she’d left a permanent mark on his face; that her hands are so strong and so gentle all at once. He wonders how long it would take to learn her through and through. A lifetime, perhaps.

 

“How did you know she was in trouble?”

 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, examining the creature for injury. “Just … _knew_ , I guess.”

 

“Is she okay?”

 

“I think so.” She pauses a moment in her examination to look up at him and teases, “Though I’m not entirely sure she’s a ‘she’.”

 

He pretends to ignore that last part, masking his amused smile. “Good.”

 

The bird is still in Mary Margaret’s hands for a moment, then flies off. No damage done, then.

 

Mary Margaret watches, gazing skyward as the dove soars away.

 

David watches, too - watches the captivated smile on Mary Margaret’s face.

 

He takes her hand in his own, and wonders absently what he’ll learn about her tomorrow.

 

\--

 

Ruth isn’t the type to alienate her own son, no matter the circumstances. But Albert? Albert isn’t the same man she'd married. He’d been a good father to her boys when they were younger, helped them transition into manhood as best he could, loving them as his own. But as his success in business grew, his compassion had withered away in equal amounts.

 

And so it was a mutual decision - his and David’s - when they had wiped their hands of each other.

 

But that was Albert, not Ruth.

 

So when she spots her boy making his way through the crowded cafe, looking entirely out of place covered in the grit and grime of his job, she leaps to her feet and pulls him into her arms. “Oh, my boy,” she breathes.

 

He returns the embrace, bending down to reach her. “I missed you too, Mother.”

 

She pulls away to look at him, and frowns at the new mark on his chin. “Oh, David--”

 

He waves her off, smiling more than he should, she thinks. “It’s nothing.”

 

They sit down at their table, and she spends approximately five minutes pestering him about needing to eat more, before they order and she gets to the crux of the matter. “I was a little disappointed not to hear from you until a full week after your birthday.”

 

She’s fishing but he can’t tell. He blushes and looks away, all but confirming what James had told her. “Oh,” he says, still not quite making eye contact. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

 

She grins. “Do I get an explanation?”

 

“I was just--” he stammers, folding and unfolding his napkin. “I was just busy.”

 

“Busy getting into bar fights or busy with a girl?”

 

He merely stares at her for a moment, mouth agape, and she knows she’s got him. “Wha-- how?”

 

Ruth grins, taking a long drink of her water. “James told me.”

 

David groans, wiping his hands over his face. “Of course he did.”

 

“So?” she prompts, gazing at him affectionately. “Care to tell me the name of the girl who’s stolen my son’s heart?”

 

A small smile. “Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret Blanchard.”

 

The name sounds familiar. Of course, since Albert’s recent business boom, she’s gotten to know many of the wealthier families in the area. Perhaps, she thinks, but the name finally clicks and she’s forced to hold her laughter at bay. “You mean that girl that went by ‘Snow White’ on the radio? The one you always swooned over?”

 

“I didn’t _swoon_ over her,” he replies petulantly.

 

“Oh, you most certainly did. And it seems now you’re swooningeven more.”

 

He sighs. “Mother …”

 

She laughs, holding up her hands in sign of surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll stop teasing. How exactly did you two meet? James wasn’t very specific.”

 

It’s a long story, though she didn’t expect anything less. It isn’t one hundred percent coherent (and she’s about ninety percent certain he’s leaving out certain _details_ ), but it’s quickly apparent that her son is head over heels in love. She can’t help but think of his father - the curve of his smile and the brightness in his eyes - and how they’d been so young and in love.

 

She also can’t help but think of war. War and death and tragedy, and a promise made on the eve of a goodbye. She twists her ring around her finger - not the flashy diamond that Albert had given her, but the other.

 

“David,” she says, interrupting his discourse on Mary Margaret’s career in aviation by closing her hands over his. “I’m so happy you’ve found someone. And I’m even happier you aren’t marrying that insufferable Kathryn Hicks.”

 

He chuckles. “Thank you, Mother.”

 

“And when the time comes ...” she says, pulling away long enough to slip that ring off her finger. It feels a bit like saying goodbye - even after her first husband had passed away, she hadn’t been able to take it off. The ring - a simple bauble of silver and peridot - had been in his family for generations, and that’s where it was going to stay. She presses the object into David’s palm, closing his fingers over it. “When the time comes, I want you to give her this.”

 

David gapes. “Mother … that’s the ring Dad gave you. I can’t--”

 

“Yes, you can,” she insists, cover his hand with both of her own. “And you will.”

 

“Mother, I’ve only known her for a few days.”

 

“For now. Soon, you will have known her for a few weeks, and then a few months. And eventually, you will give her this ring.”

 

He shakes his head doubtfully. “You seem so sure. How--?”

 

“A mother knows,” she replies firmly, then softens. “David. My sweet, sweet David. War is coming. You and your brother -- you may have avoided the draft last year, but --” She sighs, the painful memory of a goodbye tugging at the edges of her consciousness. She summons up happier thoughts instead - reunions and births - and continues on. “Things may change. And you may want this ring sooner than you’d intended. True love follows this ring, my boy, and I want _you_ to have it. Do you understand me?”

 

“Yes, Mother.” He nods, though his face has grown thoughtful. “Thank you.”

 

She smiles and changes the subject. Somewhat, at least. She has an agenda, after all. “I know it’s still a ways off, but were you planning on joining us for Thanksgiving dinner?”

 

That seems to catch him off guard, and he frowns, answering slowly. “I suppose so … ?”

 

“Good,” she grins, “then I’ll add Mary Margaret to the list too.”

 

\--

 

Their sixth not-date finds them on Mary Margaret’s sofa again. It isn’t rainy but it’s certainly cold, and she curls up in a blanket, settled against David as he reads the morning paper. A U.S. ship has been torpedoed, leaving eleven dead and twenty-two injured, and he ponders what his mother had said about the war.

 

He thinks of the ring tucked safely in the back of his sock drawer.

 

“What is this?” he asks carefully, and when Mary Margaret doesn’t respond at first, he wonders if he’s said it out loud at all.

 

“Mm?” she hums, apparently still dozing. “What’s what?”

 

“This. Us.”

 

She shifts in his arms, her face pressed into the fabric of his shirt. “What about us?”

 

He smiles, and runs his fingers through her hair. “We have to figure out what we’re doing.”

 

“We will,” she yawns, drifting off again. “Tomorrow.”

 

“Okay,” he agrees, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Tomorrow.”

 

\--

 

The apartment is quiet for once - no Mary Margaret, just Ruby and a good book for the first time in nearly two weeks. And though she’d been looking forward to the solitude, suddenly it’s deafening. She’ll be married in just over a week, and with all wedding preparations accounted for, and Granny’s health improving, she finds herself restless and lost.

 

So when there’s a knock at the door, she isn’t too bothered to set her book aside and answer it.

 

“David,” she frowns, surprised to find her roommate’s boyfriend - even if Mary Margaret herself refuses to label him as such - waiting on the other side. “Mary Margaret’s working tonight.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why are you here?” she asks suspiciously. “And how did you get past the front door?”

 

He waves her off nervously. “Another tenant was leaving as I was coming in,” he says.

 

She folds her arms across her chest, eyeing him. “That still doesn’t answer my first question.”

 

He sighs. “I was wondering if -- for your wedding -- if you could teach me how to dance.”

 

Apparently he doesn’t know how to dance at all, because twenty minutes later they’ve got the sofa and coffee table pushed flush against the wall and the record player crooning some appropriate dance music.

 

“You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” she asks, having told him the appropriate (and inappropriate) places to put his hands, and beginning to walk him through a simple box step.

 

“My mother tried to teach me once, but declared me hopeless,” he admits.

 

“Well, she might have been right,” Ruby teases, though after a few bars, he seems to be doing well enough with the basics. “Good thing you’ve found me. Mary Margaret’s an excellent dancer.”

 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he replies drily.

 

“You’ve got quite a lesson ahead of you, if you expect to keep up with her.”

 

“Good thing I’m always up for a challenge, then.”

 

He is, she quickly discovers, and a fast learner when he wants to be. He’s only managed to stomp on her toes a handful of times, and after half an hour of the boring stuff, she switches the record to play ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ and teaches him to twirl and swing her around the room. He’s a good partner - what he lacks in style, he more than makes up for in his leading and strength - and she finds herself laughing more than teaching toward the end.

 

They collapse on the sofa afterwards, catching their breath.

 

“Are you sure you never learned to dance?” she teases, tipping her head back as exhaustion takes over.

 

“Pretty sure.”

 

“Mhm, not sure if I believe you,” she says, though she most certainly does - no-one could just _pretend_ to be as bad as he’d been at the beginning.

 

“Maybe I just had a good teacher,” he grins.

 

“I think I can agree to that.”

 

They’re quiet for a moment, listening as the record player moves onto the last track. She doesn’t know him very well - only from the few tidbits Mary Margaret would divulge when her guard was down and her not-so-subtle eavesdropping from that first night at the restaurant - but she likes him. Mary Margaret hasn’t been happy - _truly_ happy - in a very long time, and that seems to be changing.

 

But Ruby is also fiercely protective of her best friend, and so she must make something _very_ clear.

 

“I’ll kill you if you hurt her. Just a warning.”

 

David doesn’t startle, merely looks over at her and says very seriously, “I’d expect nothing less.”

 

She likes him even more for that.

 

“Do you know where she’s working tonight?” he asks, as if she hadn’t threatened him just the moment before. “Pretty sure it’s a little late for sight-seeing flights.”

 

“Well, if she didn’t tell you, then I probably shouldn’t either,” Ruby muses, then grins mischievously.

 

“I sense a ‘but’,” he replies, raising his eyebrows.

 

She really _shouldn’t_ tell him. “But …”

 

\--

 

It’s quickly apparent why Mary Margaret hadn’t told David exactly _where_ she was working tonight. The Rabbit Hole is a seedy bar on the wrong side of town, but he knows it well enough, having dragged his brother’s drunken ass out of it many times in the past. She probably assumes he’ll turn into some wildly over-protective boyfriend, but he knows she can handle herself.

 

(Although he _does_ get uncharacteristically jealous at the thought of another man touching her, and he’ll absolutely seethe the moment he sees that first man looking at her with less-than-innocent thoughts.)

 

He slips into a booth in the back corner and orders a beer, sipping at it slowly while he watches her. He hasn’t asked her to sing for them since they’ve been not-dating. Somehow it had seemed almost wrong, to demand something so personal from her.

 

But she’s singing now, and he imagines it’s for him alone. She’s under the guise of ‘Snow White’ again, and he sees now exactly how she’d earned that name - her curls, tamed and smooth, are falling to her shoulders, and her skin is perfect porcelain against the fabric of her dress. He’s never seen her quite like this - always catching her after a long day’s work, both of them covered in dirt and grime. She’s beautiful (nearly as beautiful as the day she stormed into his life, literally and figuratively turning his world upside down), and in a rare moment of possessiveness, he realizes that she’s _his_.

 

The music shifts into the soft cadence of a love song, and her eyes meet his.

 

He swallows thickly, realizing that he may have miscalculated, because right now _he_ definitely belongs to _her_.

 

The song ends, but the magic does not, and she tells the band she’s taking her break before making her way over to him. He braces himself for the impact, expecting her to punch him (or at the very least yell) for checking up on her, but it never comes.

 

Instead, she slips into the booth beside him, so close that she’s practically on his lap, and closes her mouth over his, arms winding round his neck. As he returns the kiss, fingertips tracing the shell of her ear, he thinks of a certain green ring and his parents on Firefly Hill.


	4. United we stand.

**United we stand.**

 

_Miss Ruby Lucas and Mr. Peter Holloway request the honor of your presence at their marriage._

_November 1st, 1941_

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret is in the bridal party. David knew this from the beginning, of course, but he hasn’t been to many weddings, and consequently had no idea she’d be involved in some sort of ritualistic pre-wedding primping. So he spends an awkward twenty minutes milling about the church before giving up and slipping into a pew at the back, feeling more and more out of place.

 

For Mary Margaret, he thinks. A small price to pay for her happiness.

 

It’s strange, really, that only a month ago the name ‘Snow’ meant very little to him - a familiar voice on the radio - and the name ‘Mary Margaret’ even less. And now? Now, every moment seems to be filled with a need to make her happy. It should bother him, he thinks, that one person has him wrapped up so tightly. But it doesn’t. Each day he grows more and more convinced of his mother’s infinite wisdom.

 

The other guests filter in quietly, finding their seats. It’s a small wedding, and he’s wondering if the guest list will even fill the church when a stout, gruff man plops down beside him.

 

“No date either, huh?”

 

David glances over, having not expected his seemingly unhappy companion to be the chatty type. “What? Oh. No, no, I do. She’s just -- in the bridal party.”

 

The man seems surprised, and gives David a once-over, sizing him up. “Mary Margaret, huh? You’re a lucky man.”

 

“So you know her?”

 

The man tugs at his tie uncomfortably, loosening it. “Since she was a girl. Watched both of them grow up - her and Ruby. I guess you’d say I’m an old friend of the family.”

 

David extends his hand. “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.”

 

The man gives him one last scrutinizing glance before accepting David’s hand. “It’s Leroy.”

 

**\--**

 

“Beautiful,” Granny breathes as Mary Margaret secures the veil in Ruby’s hair.

 

She’s the quintessential blushing bride, near tears as she turns to her grandmother. “Really?”

 

“Really,” Granny assures her and stands. Her strength seems to be returning, but Mary Margaret isn’t sure how much of that is truth and how much is put on for Ruby’s sake.

 

“Thank you, Granny. I -- I know how you feel about Peter and --”

 

Granny cuts her off by cradling the girl’s face in her hands. “Ruby. My dear, dear Ruby. You’re happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

 

The pair stay like that for a long while, and Mary Margaret turns away, wondering what a moment like this would feel like.

 

\--

 

David and Leroy are in the middle of a heated discussion regarding the benefits and drawbacks of Ford’s new crankshaft design when the music starts.

 

His whole life, David has taken pride in his ability to maintain his composure. Even as a boy, he hadn’t cried at his father’s funeral - not because he was too tough to show his emotions, but because his mother needed strength and strength was all he had to give. And even as his step-father had berated him, yelled and cursed in his face, he’d kept his rising temper carefully in check.

 

But as the doors open and Mary Margaret takes one careful step after another down the aisle, he’s fairly certain his jaw hits the floor.

 

The dress is modest - a far cry from what she wears moonlighting at the Rabbit Hole - but she’s smiling at him, and it isn’t discreet - a smile just for _him_ for all these people to see. She laughs softly at him as she passes - confirming his suspicion that he looks downright besotted - then catches his gaze as she stands at the altar.

 

He’s so enthralled that he barely registers the whole congregation rising.

 

Leroy tugs him to his feet, but he still doesn’t turn to watch Ruby’s entrance, nor does he look down the aisle to see the groom’s reaction.

 

No, there’s no room for anything else when Mary Margaret is staring at him like _that_. It’s enough to make him tremble - love enough to knock him clear off his feet - and he thinks vaguely that this is how the _groom_ should be feeling, not the awkward guest.

 

Love. It’s a word he’s mulled over for the past several weeks, a word he isn’t certain she’s ready to hear.

 

But as the crowd sits once more, and he feels the weight of his mother’s ring in his pocket, he knows it’s a word he’s more than ready to say.

 

\--

 

It's a simple ceremony, short and sweet. And before she knows it, they're racing to the reception.

 

The reception itself is at Granny’s restaurant. Times are hard, and money’s tight, so Ruby had insisted she didn’t need a fancy wedding - just a simple church ceremony, and dinner and dancing with friends. The latter, Granny easily supplied.

 

Mary Margaret scans the crowd, catching sight of Ruby and Peter chatting up Tom Clark before she spots David.

 

Of course, she finds the cheeky bastard - _her_ cheeky bastard - in the same booth he’d been sitting in when she’d marched up to him and punched him square in the jaw. He’s deep in conversation with Leroy, fingertips tracing the rim of his tumbler of scotch, and doesn’t notice her approach, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she stands over them. “Hey boys.”

 

David smiles up at her instantly. “Hey.”

 

Leroy looks up too, and hops up to pull her into a hug. “Lookin’ good, kiddo.”

 

“Thanks,” she says as she returns the hug, grinning over his shoulder at David. “Not giving David here much trouble, are you?”

 

“Not at all.” He pulls away and his smile says he most definitely is.

 

They fall into an awkward silence before Leroy gets the hint (albeit with a little help from Mary Margaret’s shoe pressing down on his foot). “I’ll just …” he trails off, swiping his drink from the table and scurrying off (though not before casting a warning glance at David).

 

Left alone, Mary Margaret hesitates a moment before slipping into the booth beside David. “Sorry about that.”

 

“He’s a good guy.” He greets her with a light kiss, something that, while commonplace in their clandestine meetings, is bold given the public setting. After all, she thinks with a grin, they’ve never even been on a date. “You look very beautiful.”

 

Bold still, she thinks as she settles into his arms and swipes his scotch, taking a long sip. “You clean up pretty well yourself.” She grins, passing him the tumbler. “Amazing what a shower will do. You even look the part of Prince Charming.”

 

“Well, I had to,” he replies, his tone so serious she nearly doubles over with laughter. “Wouldn’t want to seem out of place while on the arm of such a beautiful princess.”

 

She snorts, stealing back the scotch before he can even take a sip. “Charming, indeed.”

 

\--

 

He doesn’t get long with her before she’s needed again. She has a variety of responsibilities - from helping load up presents to helping Ruby in the bathroom, from toasting the new couple to pinning up Ruby’s dress - and so she finally settles in beside him again as Peter takes Ruby out onto the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife.

 

Mary Margaret slumps against him and he curls an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as he watches the pair swaying to the music. He knows her cues though, knows the way exhaustion presents in her face, in her posture, and this isn’t it. She’s playing at being sleepy, and he knows it.

 

So naturally, he presses a kiss to the top of her head and whispers, “Tired?”

 

“Something like that,” is her quiet reply, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

 

The music changes, and husband and wife part. It’s still a ballad, though, so David slides from the booth, tugging Mary Margaret along with him.

 

“I thought I told you that I’m not the dinner-and-dancing type,” she teases, but follows regardless.

 

“You did,” he admits, resting one hand on the small of her back and closing the other around one of hers.

 

“But?” she prompts.

 

“But nothing.” He grins. “I just wanted to dance with you.”

 

\--

 

Though the world turns and time passes, Granny thinks that some things never change. They may be older now - grown women, one even married - but Ruby and Mary Margaret are still her little girls. Presently, they’re spinning one another in circles on the dance floor to see who gets dizzy first, heedless of the other guests trying to dance around them. They’d done the same thing at every event they’d attended growing up, even as they’d turned into sour teenagers with no interest in attending some strangers’ wedding.

 

Ruby loses the game, as she always does, shrieking that she can’t stand up any longer, and as always Mary Margaret catches her, even as Peter attempts to run to the rescue.

 

No, she thinks, some things will never change.

 

“They’ve always been like that,” she comments, and glances to the man sitting on the bench beside her. He stares at her in confusion. “I’m sorry, I never introduced myself. I’m Ruby’s grandmother. You can call me Granny.”

 

The young man shakes her hand. “Oh, it’s nice to meet you. I’m--”

 

“David. I know. I’ve heard much about you.”

 

He frowns. “From Ruby?”

 

“A bit, yes. But mostly Mary Margaret.” She catches a hint of a satisfied smile, and she knows the boy has fallen hard. “She’s basically family.”

 

David nods. “She told me she’s been friends with Ruby her whole life.”

 

“Like sisters, those two. And all the family Mary Margaret’s got left anymore.”

 

“I thought Mary Margaret still had a step-mother,” David prompts carefully.

 

Granny scoffs. “That evil witch? Took almost all of her husband’s estate for herself. That plane of Mary Margaret’s? It’s all she has left. It was one step away from the scrap heap when she started fixing it.”

 

David’s quiet for a long moment, processing this new information. “So -- her father … ?”

 

“Very wealthy. She grew up wanting for nothing. But now? Now, she lives from paycheck to paycheck.”

 

He’s quiet again, as if weighing his words carefully. “You wouldn’t know it. Talking to her, I mean.”

 

“She’s very down to earth,” Granny agrees. “She wasn’t always, but she is now, and that’s what matters.”

 

David nods, and Granny watches as his gaze catches Mary Margaret’s from across the room. Young love. What a shame, she thinks, to find it in the midst of war.

 

It’s only a moment before Mary Margaret is tugging the boy away, their fingers entwining as she drags him back to the dance floor.

 

\--

 

It’s been a long day, Mary Margaret thinks as she turns her key in the lock and pushes the door open. A very long day, indeed. But for Ruby? It’s worth it.

 

David follows her inside, guiding her to the sofa where she plops down in the corner and kicks off her shoes to put her feet up on the coffee table. He’d given her his suit jacket on the walk home, and the sleeves hang just her fingers.

 

“You look exhausted,” he comments softly as he sits down beside her.

 

She curls into him immediately. “What gave it away?”

 

He works his fingers through her hair, slowly and carefully. She’s sure it’s full of knots at this point, having not bothered with it despite all the dancing and running around. It may be better to cut it all off, she thinks, but David seems to like it this way. Yes, somehow what David likes has become a deciding factor in her life. He takes his time with a particularly stubborn snarl, and asks, “Can I get you anything?”

 

“Mm, a cup of tea and a new pair of feet?”

 

He chuckles. “Not sure what I can do about the feet, but the tea I can do.” He drops a kiss against her temple and stands, making his way over to the kitchen. “Peppermint or chamomile?”

 

“Chamomile.” She hesitates a moment, weighing the benefits of following him against the benefits of staying put, before dragging herself up and heading after him. Her feet really do hurt, though, and she winds up hobbling the whole way.

 

“You know the whole point of me making you tea was so that you could rest.”

 

She shrugs, then hauls herself up onto the counter. “I had to supervise.”  
  


“It’s just tea,” he points out, putting the kettle on the stove.

 

“In _my_ kitchen.”

 

“I’m pretty sure I can handle it,” he assures her, and only takes two attempts to find the cabinet with the mugs. He grabs the two in front. Of course he does. He has no reason to look around for the plain ones in the back, no idea - even after all the time he’s spent here - that he’s pulled down _Ruby’s_ mug. One of the very few things of hers left in the small apartment.

 

Mary Margaret thinks she must be more exhausted than she’d initially thought, to get upset over a silly mug. But she’s always been the sentimental type, and today marks the beginning of a new era. It’s hard for her to remember a time when she and Ruby hadn’t been inseparable, and now? Now Ruby has a life of her own. She’ll be back to use the mug of course - will probably be drinking from it when she announces the impending birth of her first child, just as she’d poured schnapps into it to celebrate news of her engagement - but it will never be the same. Mary Margaret is happy for her of course, but at the same time she can’t help the sense of loss.

 

David’s dropping a teabag into each when he notices. “Mary Margaret?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

There’s no sense lying to him. He knows; he always knows. “Nothing, just -- that’s Ruby’s mug.” It’s silly, really - Ruby isn’t using it, after all - and she half-prepares herself for him to laugh.

 

He looks thoughtfully at the mug in his hand, before removing the teabag and replacing the mug in the cabinet, grabbing instead one of the white ones from the back. “Sorry, I forgot. This one’s mine.”

 

Her breath catches in her throat, just for a moment, before she teases him, though her mouth has gone dry. “You are rather forgetful.”

 

“I am,” he agrees, before hopping up on the counter beside her.

 

They’re quiet for awhile, waiting for the water to boil. She swings her feet. He loosens his tie.

 

“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” she says finally, daring to look over at him. “I know it was probably awkward and boring and --”

 

He cuts her off with a kiss - a slow, careful kiss - his fingertips lingering against her cheek. “I had a wonderful time.”

 

The kettle whistles and the moment is broken. He pulls away to prepare the tea, and she wraps herself more tightly in his jacket. While it steeps, he runs to the living room to retrieve her bouquet, putting it in some water before the flowers begin to wilt. His jacket sleeves are still covering her hands as he presses the steaming mug into her palms. “Thank you,” she whispers.

 

They drink their tea in silence. He climbs up onto the counter beside her again, and she shifts closer to him, her thigh pressing up against his. Either the tea or the company - or perhaps a combination of both - does the trick, and she sets her mug aside, her exhaustion fading. No, her feet still ache and she can feel the tension of the day working its way into her back, but sleep has fallen a few rungs on her priority list.

 

David slides off the counter and takes their empty mugs to the sink. “I should probably go,” he says softly, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead. “Let you sleep.”

 

“Probably,” she agrees, as she winds her arms around him, pulling him close.

 

His fingers weave through her hair again, pausing at the nape of her neck as he massages gently, causing her to hum happily in response. “I really did have a wonderful time.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“After all, I finally got to take you on a date.”

 

She actually laughs at that, knowing that arguing is completely useless, and leans up to meet his kiss.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promises, then kisses her again, lightly. “Good night.”

 

He’s barely a few paces away when she surprises even herself with her own boldness, dropping off the counter and catching his hand in her own. “Don’t leave?”

 

He turns. “Mary Margaret--”

 

“Please?” She takes a step forward and ignores the pain in her feet as she rises up onto her toes to kiss him. It isn’t chaste, and though it isn’t the first time she’s opened up to him - not the first time she’s tasted him, not the first time her tongue has stroked across his bottom lip - it’s different now. He feels it too; she can tell by the unsteadiness in his hand against her hip, the way he touches her as if she might break. There are no chaperones now - no police officers or roommates due home in an hour - and it’s two in the morning, and she’s still got his jacket falling over her fingers. She pulls back, just barely, lips still moving against his as she speaks. “Please, don’t leave.”

 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath that rumbles through his chest and into hers. “Are you -- sure?”

 

She wasn’t - a week, a day, even a few hours ago - but she is now. She isn’t sure when the shift happened, but it did, and now she’s more sure than ever. So she nods, fingers loosening the knot of his tie. “Yes,” she says, and uses it to pull him down for a kiss, then along with her as she leads the way to her bedroom.

 

She hadn’t thought to clean up, but then again, she hadn’t thought she would be bringing any company home with her. The narrow room is cluttered, and the even narrower bed is unmade. She thinks she should be embarrassed, but if the way David is looking at her right now is any indication, he’s hardly even noticed.

 

She takes a deep breath, working clumsily at the knot in his tie again before pulling it off and moving onto the buttons of his shirt. Shyly, she finally meets his eyes. “I’ve -- never done this before.” With the way she’s fumbling and most certainly failing at even removing his shirt, she can already predict his response - a cheeky remark of ‘I can tell.’

 

But he surprises her by covering her hands with his own, guiding her fingers. “Neither have I.”

 

She stills, considering the significance of this moment, and how it’s everything and nothing at all like how she’d thought it would be. “Good,” she says, resuming work on his buttons, though both her hands and voice are shaky. “We’ll -- learn together then.”

 

“Together,” he agrees, and pushes his jacket off her shoulders.

 

He kisses her again, both hands moving to tangle in her hair, and she sighs into him, letting herself drift in the moment. He drifts, too - his mouth moving along her jaw and pausing to suck at the skin behind her ear. She whimpers softly at the sensation, and raises her hands again to push his shirt off his shoulders, then tug his undershirt over his head.

 

Firm muscle rises beneath her palms as she traces her hands over his bare chest, and she leans forward to press her lips to his sternum, lingering. Even through his cologne she can smell the rusty scent of the garage on him, as if it’s soaked into his very skin.

 

She holds still, cheek pressed against him as he works at the closure to her dress, hands trembling as he pushes the straps off her shoulders, the dress pooling at her feet.

 

He stares, then stares some more, and she feels the blood rush to her cheeks. When another moment has passed, and he’s still staring unabashedly at her standing in her underwear, she laughs. “Like me more now, Charming?”

 

He makes a noise akin to a growl, and with no further pretense he sweeps her off her feet - quite literally - and into his arms. She shrieks with delight and laughter, arms winding around his neck.

 

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

 

He deposits her carefully on the bed, and she pulls him down on top of her. There really isn’t enough room for both of them, but they make it work, struggling to remove the rest of their clothing in the narrow space. She dissolves into a fit of giggles as he knocks his elbow into the wall and curses softly.

 

(She kisses it better, of course, once, twice then again and again until he resumes his work.)

 

Completely bare against him, she takes in the sensation of skin on skin, enjoying the heat that emanates from him as his mouth travels down the column of her throat and to her chest. She gasps, his name on her lips as he carefully closes his hand over her breast, then curls her fingers through his hair as he closes his mouth over her nipple, stroking with his tongue. He moves further down, and he’s looking up at her for her reaction - he isn’t timid by any means, but he’s careful with her, waiting for permission and encouragement - and she nods.

 

It’s strange to think in such a short amount of time, this has become the rhythm of their relationship - a silent conversation of which boundaries to push and which are best left alone. Perhaps that’s why, though lacking any prior experience, he’s able to find just the right patch of skin to kiss, just the right angle as he presses a finger inside her.

 

His eyes are dark with desire as he watches her, watches as she gasps softly in response to his touches, pushing her hips forward to meet his hand. “Is this -- is this okay?”

 

It should be obvious - she’s flushed all over and struggling to catch her breath - and she wants to laugh but she can’t, because apparently it _was_ obvious and his mouth is closing over her again and _oh_.

 

She feels the tension rising as he strokes with his finger and then with his tongue, and she wants to give into it, craves the release, but-- “Charming,” she breathes, and he pulls away.

 

It’s just enough time for her to flip him onto his back, straddling him as she presses her torso against his. Her head is still spinning and she can feel his arousal pressing against her, and she wants him so much - _all_ of him.

 

It’ll hurt, she thinks. Not that it’s a secret, but more a myth confirmed as she’d overheard Granny’s words of wisdom to Ruby before the wedding. Slow, she thinks, reciting the advice in her head as she presses delicate kisses to David’s face. Relax.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, his hands grasping her hips firmly.

 

She grins. “Are you?”

 

He kisses her, and that’s all the confirmation she needs. She doesn’t hesitate, positioning herself and easing herself down onto him. It hurts - not as much as she’d expected - but enough to make her bite back a whimper.

 

She’s still for a moment, adjusting to the feel of him and taking in the way he trembles with every breath, his chest shuddering beneath her palms. The pain fades, ebbs slowly as she relaxes and settles onto him more comfortably - onto, around and every possible way she can be with him, she thinks faintly. His hands are still clutching her hips, fingers digging in as he revels in the feeling. Swallowing thickly, she leans her forehead against his. “You okay?”

 

He laughs, though even in that sound she can hear the restraint. “Shouldn’t _I_ be asking the same thing of _you_?”

 

“We’ve never been the type to do things traditionally,” she teases, and pulls back to see him better, her thumb tracing the familiar scar on his chin.

 

“No,” he agrees, and when she thinks he’s about to move, he merely moves his hand to where they’re joined, stroking his thumb over the patch of nerves he’d been so attentive to earlier. And with that, all thoughts of pain vanish, and she finds herself rocking against him, whimpering softly. He meets herthrust for thrust, groaning softly.

 

There’s something dangerous in his eyes - something deeper than lust - and she’s momentarily terrified that it’s reflected in her own.

 

But as the pleasure builds and builds, her climax claiming her, and as he sits up to pull her into his arms, his own release shuddering through his body, she thinks that maybe there’s nothing to be afraid of after all.

 

They come down together, breathing hard and tangled up in one another. She can feel his pulse racing inside of her, and she imagines he can hear the pounding of her heart as he presses his ear to her chest.

 

“Charming?” she whispers. It’s the name she gave him, the first of many things she’s given him now.

 

“Mm?”

 

“Don’t leave?”

 

His arms tighten around her, and he presses a kiss to the skin over her heart. “Never.”

 

\--

 

They don’t sleep. Not at first, at least. Despite his brother’s many conquests - and many uncomfortably detailed stories regarding said conquests - David had never realized how _messy_ this would be. So while Mary Margaret slips his shirt on to guard against the chill and scurries to the bathroom to clean up, he tugs on his underwear and puts himself to work changing the bed sheets.

 

He’s just managed to remake the bed when she emerges, beautiful with her hair all wild and his sleeves falling past her fingertips again.

 

She slides into his embrace, hugging him warmly for a moment before pulling away. “Thank you. For--”

 

He shakes his head, scooping her dress from the floor and moving to hang it back in the wardrobe. “Partially my fault,” he quips, crawling back into bed.

 

She smiles, and stoops to collect the rest of their clothes, pausing as she picks up his pants. “What’s this?”

 

His heart nearly stops as he watches her dig in the pocket before pulling out his mother’s ring. “It was -- my mother’s,” he stammers, wondering vaguely why he’d ever even thought to carry it with him. “She gave it to me -- for luck.” It isn’t a lie, not entirely at least.

 

She grins wickedly, coming to slip into bed beside him. “And what did you need luck for tonight?”

 

He laughs, pulling the covers over her. “Well, it worked. Though I’m not sure if _this_ is what she had in mind.”

 

“Probably not,” she agrees, and presses the ring into his palm.

 

He considers the ring for a moment, holding it up to the light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. “I know, not your style.”

 

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she says, and snatches it away.

 

He holds his breath as she slides it onto her ring finger, marveling at the perfect fit as she holds it up to the light again. It fits - just as her body fits molded against his own, as the sleeves of his shirt fall just past her fingertips. Just as he fits so perfectly inside her.

 

It fits.

 

She clears her throat, her hand trembling. “Yeah, not me at all.”

 

But she doesn’t take it off as she curls into his arms, her face pressed into the crook of his neck.

 

Now or never, he thinks. He takes a deep breath, tangling his fingers into her curls. “Mary Margaret, I--”

 

She cuts him off, sitting up again to look at him. “David. Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t say it.”

 

He doesn’t bother to ask her how she knows - she _always_ knows. “Why not?” He reaches up to cup her face in his hand, drawing his thumb along her cheekbone.

 

“Because I want to say it first.” She turns to press her lips to his palm, then meets his eyes again with such intensity it’s overwhelming. “I love you, Charming.”

 

He swallows thickly. “I love you too.”

 

She settles back in beside him, pressed tightly against him in the narrow bed, so close he can feel her heart beating in time with his.

 

“Charming?” He’s nearly asleep when she says it, blinking awake as he presses the ring back into his hand.

 

“Mm?”

 

“It might not be my style _now_ , but someday …” she trails off, feigning sleep.

 

Someday, he thinks as he drifts back to sleep. Someday is more than good enough for him.


	5. Save kitchen scraps to feed the pigs.

**Save kitchen scraps to feed the pigs.**

 

_My sweet boy,_

_I do hope you’re still planning on joining us for Thanksgiving dinner. I’d love to see you again and I’m eager to meet Mary Margaret, considering I’ve hardly heard a word from you since the two of you met. Your brother’s bringing his new girlfriend too. Who knows when we’ll next be able to get together as a whole family?_

 

_I love and miss you dearly,  
Mother_

_Received November 10,1941._

 

\--

 

Morning comes and David wakes, smiling upon remembering the night before. The world is stirring, carrying on, and as always there is much to do today, but for now, it can wait. Mary Margaret is still asleep, tucked close against his side with sunlight streaming across her face. He moves a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothing the errant curls.

 

“You snore,” she says, not yet opening her eyes, but she’s grinning mischievously.

 

He chuckles. “Sorry about that.”

 

“Never said it was a problem.” She opens her eyes then, shifting to kiss him softly. “Good morning.”

 

“Good morning,” he replies, working his fingers through her hair. “How are you -- feeling?”

 

She kisses him again in response, her lips lingering against his as he breathes her in. “Amazing. You?”

 

He chuckles. “About the same.”

 

“Good,” she murmurs before closing her mouth over his again. She tastes sweet as her lips part beneath his own, and he can already feel his body responding to hers. He groans, stroking his hand down the length of her body, past her hip and down her thigh, then drawing it back up beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

 

Her hips shift against his, and he pulls away, gasping for breath. “Mary Margaret--”

 

“Mm?” she hums, leaning down to leave a trail of kisses across his chest.

 

“I have to work today.”

 

She’s working her way further and further downward, disappearing beneath the sheet. “But you normally have Sundays off.”

 

“Got a rush job. Everyone’s coming in to finish it before tomo-- ah!” he gasps as her teeth graze his hipbone.

 

“Mm, but it’s still early,” comes her muffled reply as she tugs his underwear down over his hips. “You can be a _little_ late.” She takes him in her mouth, and he knows she’s got him trapped.

 

A little late it is then.

 

\--

 

Once upon a time, Mr. Gold had personally collected the rent from his tenants. Yes, there had once been a time without any beautiful assistants - a time of loneliness and isolation. There had been a time before that as well, of course - a time of war and fear. The loneliness returned with Lacey’s departure, and he feels the war returning as well - feels it in the aching of his leg, the aching of his heart. War is coming, and with war comes sacrifice.

 

It’s an unpleasant thought, but it plagues him often, even as he makes his way up the stairs to collect the rent. He’s normally a very strict landlord - one late payment enough to justify eviction - but this is perhaps the sixth time he’s forgiven Miss Blanchard’s late rent. Lacey would tell him - with a warm smile and teasing tone - that he’s going soft. He isn’t, of course. He just sees something … special in the girl’s future.

 

He’s just about to knock when the door opens in front of him, a young man stumbling out, laughing over his shoulder as he collides with Gold.

 

“Oh I’m so so--” The boy freezes upon righting himself. “Oh.”

 

Gold isn’t one to forget a face, and it barely takes a moment for him to put it with a name. He leans heavily on his cane, eyeing the boy. “It’s Mr. Nolan, yes?”

 

“Yeah -- yes. Yes. And you’re … Mr. Gold, right? The Delahaye.”

 

“That would be me, yes,” Gold agrees, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re a friend of Miss Blanchard’s?”

 

The boy stutters, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I -- uh.”

 

Yes, Gold thinks. Just as he’d thought. “Ah, I see.” He grins. “I understand.”

 

“I’ll just --”

 

“Of course,” Gold says, stepping aside. “Good day, Mr. Nolan.”

 

The younger man ducks his head and slips away as quickly as possible. Gold chuckles; this is quite a development. It’s a small world, indeed.

 

He’s about to try knocking again when - like something out of a Chaplin flick - the door opens again, this time to Mary Margaret nearly bumping into him, a man’s suit jacket in her hand.

 

“David! You forgot your-- oh.”

 

“I suppose that’s the proper response,” Gold sighs, but the whole exchange is rather amusing. “If you need to run after Mr. Nolan, I can wait.”

 

She folds her arms, hugging the jacket to her chest. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll just -- I’ll get it back to him later.”

 

Later, indeed. Gold smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

 

She clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably for a moment. She’s still clad only in her dressing robe, and her hair is even more disheveled than normal, leaving no doubt at all what had occurred the night before. “You can -- come in,” she stammers, stepping aside to let him through. “I only have half the rent for you right now. I forgot to get the rest from Ruby but I can get it to you--”

 

He cuts her off, leaning on his cane beside the counter as she bustles about the kitchen, looking for the rent. “No need to worry, Miss Blanchard. I understand.”

 

She pauses in her search, frowning at him. “You do?”

 

“Of course. I was actually coming by to say that she can consider her part of the rent as a late wedding present. And to deliver this,” he says, placing the card on the table. It wouldn’t have been late, he thinks vaguely, had Lacey been there to remind him. “I trust you’ll also pass along my apology for missing the big event.”

 

“I’ll let her know,” Mary Margaret assures him, finally coming up with the envelope. “Here, this should be my half.”  
  
“Very good,” he says, accepting it. “Not to be crass, but might I ask how you plan to afford both halves now that Miss Lucas - I mean Mrs. Holloway - is moving out?”

 

From the look on her face, it’s clear that she’s considered the problem, but not formulated any solution. It isn’t surprising really - Miss Blanchard has always been a responsible yet proud woman. “I --”

 

“No need to answer, Miss Blanchard. But if you’re interested, I might know of an opportunity for a more … _stable_ income for you.”

 

“And what might that be?”

 

“I still have some contacts higher up in the Department of the Army. Seems with war knocking on our back door, they’re considering creating a women’s auxiliary unit. The pay and benefits are sure to be grand.”

 

“Mr. Gold,” she stammers. “With all due respect, I --”

 

“No pressure, dearie. Just promise to think about it, and I’ll … look the other way if rent is a week or two late next month. Deal?”

 

“Deal,” she replies automatically, though she seems lost in thought.

 

“Good day, Miss Blanchard.”

  
She’ll do it, he thinks, making his way back out and down the stairs. She’s a fighter, after all - brave. The war will need people like her - women like her. But as the familiar ache creeps back into his leg, he sincerely hopes her toll won’t be as great as his own had been.

 

\--

 

While David had developed a habit for turning up at her place of work, she had never been brave enough to return the favor. She knows it though - Collodi’s Garage on Third and Pine - and so after she’s spent the better part of the day attempting to read the same ten pages of a novel, the sleeves of his jacket falling over her fingers, she decides that said jacket is as good an excuse as any and makes her way downtown to return it.

 

It’s clean, if a bit cramped, and a bell rings over the door as she enters. To be quite honest, she feels rather ridiculous wearing one of her nicer dresses to a garage when normally wearing a skirt in place of trousers is a step up for her. She’s debating whether or not this was a good idea at all and considers leaving when she’s greeted by an older gentleman, wiping his hands on a rag.

 

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

 

“Oh, yes, sorry. I’m -- um -- here to see David.”

 

The man’s eyes widen, and she’s instantly certain that David’s spoke of her before. “You must be Mary Margaret?”

 

“Yes. That’s me.”

 

“Delighted to finally meet you.” He hastily wipes his hand again over his coveralls, then offers it to her, kissing her fingers as he takes it. “I’m Marco Collodi. But please, just call me Marco. Come in, come in!” He ushers her back into the workroom before she can insist otherwise. “David! You’ve got a visitor!”

 

David ducks out from beneath the car, smiling at her in a way that makes her blush all the way to her ears. He’s covered head to toe in grease, but he’s beaming as bright as ever. “Mary Margaret. What are you -- ?”

 

She holds out his jacket, a little reluctant to give it back, but confident she’ll be able to snag it - or some other article of clothing - again soon. “You -- forgot this.”  
  
He seems a bit disappointed at that. “Oh. Thank you.” He reaches forward to collect the item, then pauses as both their eyes settle on his grease-stained hands. “Actually, why don’t you hold onto it for a little longer?”

 

“I can do that,” she says, hugging it back against her chest. “You can come over tonight. To get it, I mean.”

 

He grimaces, his expression almost apologetic. “We’ll be working right up until dinner.”

 

“That’s fine. How does spaghetti sound?”

 

He grins. “Perfect.”

 

The moment is broken, though, when a dark-skinned man approaches them, wiping his hands clean on his coveralls. “So this is her, huh?”

 

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Mary Margaret replies wryly, then offers her hand. “I’m Mary Margaret.”

 

“Leonard,” he says, taking her hand. “You’ve certainly got David all tied up in knots.”

 

It must be true, because David looks like he’s about ready to strangle his friend, even as she smiles mischievously at him. “Oh have I now?”

 

“Leonard …”

 

“You most certainly have.” It’s a different man now, young with blonde hair and a hopeful expression, an equally young man standing silently at his side. “I’m Sean, and this is Billy. David talks about you constantly.”

 

“Sean …”

 

“Apparently he does.”

 

The lot of them laugh, the boys talking over each other to tell her embarrassing secrets while she watches on in amusement. She’d once heard that to judge a man, you should only look as far as the company he keeps. Well, if that’s truly the case, then David is exactly the man she’d thought him to be. They’re a good bunch, with a good sense of humor to boot. David, red-faced and half-annoyed, finally interrupts the merriment by prodding Leonard with a wrench. “All right, all right. You’ve met her. You’ve verified her existence. Can we all get back to work now?”

 

They grumble, but do reluctantly return to their tasks. “Sorry about that,” he says meekly. “They like giving me a hard time.”

 

“Well so do I, so I suppose we’ll get along fabulously.”

 

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Of course you would.”

 

“That’s why you love me,” she teases, nudging his boot with her toe.

 

“It might be one of the reasons.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. Um. While I’m -- thinking about it, I should probably tell you that you’ve been invited to Thanksgiving dinner with my family.”

 

Her brow furrows. “Thanksgiving?”

 

“I know it’s a while off still,” he adds quickly. “My mother was just insistent I invite you. You don’t have to. I’d understand if you didn’t want to, but --”

 

“Your mother?” she stammers. “You -- you want me to meet your mother? Are you sure?”

 

He chuckles softly. “Well, we’ve been dating for--”

 

She cuts him off, correcting him. “Not dating.”

 

“We’ve been _not dating_ for almost a month now,” he amends, then lowers his voice. “And after last night … I think it’s about time you met my mother.”

 

She supposes can’t really argue with that logic. “I’ll … think about it.”

 

“Good.”

 

They’re silent for a moment, before it becomes apparent that the four other men in the garage are watching them not-so-subtly from their workstations. “I should -- let you boys work.”

 

“Probably,” David replies regretfully. “I’ll see you tonight, though.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that,” she quips, using the pad of her thumb to wipe a smudge of grease from his cheek, then rises on her toes to kiss him goodbye.

 

\--

 

Thanksgiving comes sooner than David expected. Perhaps it’s the frantic schedule he’s taken on at the garage, or maybe it’s the evenings - and nights and mornings and everything in between - that he’s spent with Mary Margaret. Whatever it is, it causes the day to sneak up on him, and it seems the same has happened to Mary Margaret as well.

 

Her hand clutches his more tightly than usual as they make their way down the street. “Are you sure about this?”

 

“Of course,” he replies carefully. “Are you? You don’t have to do this, you know.”

 

“No. I mean -- I mean, yes. Yes I’m sure. If this is what you want, then I want it too.”

 

It’s a lot, he knows. A lot for him to ask and a lot for her to do. She’d been guarded when they first met - broken too many times over to risk another tragedy - but against her better judgment she’d let him in. But guarded or not, her heart is kind, loving and pure, fragile despite her strength. “Thank you,” he murmurs, pulling her close to press a kiss against her hair.

 

“But I swear to God, if your brother makes even one snarky comment, I’m kicking his ass.”

 

He will, of course, but all thoughts of James and nerves seem to vanish as Ruth answers the door and welcomes them with open arms. “I’m so glad you made it,” she coos, pulling Mary Margaret into an embrace first.

 

“We wouldn’t miss it, Mother.”

 

Ruth pulls away, holding Mary Margaret at arms’ length. “You really are just as lovely as he says.”

 

Mary Margaret blushes a deep crimson, and it takes all of David’s willpower not to imagine the way that same blush spreads all over her body. “I-- thank you,” she stutters, looking back to him for guidance.

 

“Mother,” he warns. “Please don’t scare her away already. I’m trying to keep her around.”

 

She nudges him in the ribs for that, before rising onto her toes to hug him. “I’m not scaring anyone,” she chides.

 

He returns the hug, laughing. “Of course not.”

 

“You look good, my boy,” she says when she pulls away, cupping his cheek in her palm. “She’s good for you.”

 

Mary Margaret suppresses a giggle beside him. “Mother …”

 

“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me. I’m just speaking the truth.”

 

Mothers, he thinks. Always embarrassing their sons.

 

She seems to be evaluating them as a couple now - he sees the way she watches Mary Margaret’s hand slip into his own - and if her expression is any indication, she approves. “Well, don’t stand out in the cold. Come on in; everyone’s here already.”

 

He turns to Mary Margaret, smiling reassuringly, and offers his arm. “Shall we?”

 

\--

 

David is lucky that she likes his mother, because otherwise she would have castrated his brother already (and they’re not even at dessert yet). They’re nothing alike, she decides. The same blood may run through their veins, but their hearts are so very different that if it weren’t for their undeniable likeness, she wouldn’t ever suspect they were related. In fact, he’s more like their step-father than she’d expected - pretentious, entitled and an asshole to boot.

 

He’s brought a date - a girl named Jacqueline who goes by Jack - a Navy nurse back on leave for the holidays. She’s a bit full of herself, but not as insufferable as Mary Margaret had feared, so between her and Ruth, there’s enough intelligent conversation to go around.

 

That is, until Albert opens his mouth.

 

(Mary Margaret has no words for that man. Well, no. That isn’t _quite_ true, but she has no words suitable for polite company, and certainly none a proper lady would utter, and tonight - for David’s sake - she _is_ a proper lady.)

 

“Will you three nags stop with this taradiddle?”

 

Mary Margaret’s eyes narrow. “Taradiddle?”

 

David seethes. “Albert …”

 

“Yes, my dear. It means ‘pretentious nonsense’, in which you seem well versed.”

 

“I know what it means. What I don’t know is how you can consider a discussion on world affairs ‘nonsense’.”

 

“World affairs are hardly nonsense,” Albert agrees, but the edge to his voice is more condescending than ever. “What’s nonsense is _women_ taking part in the discussion.”

 

She feels David’s hand settle on her knee, squeezing gently. Logically she knows that she should back down, but that’s hardly her style, and David knows that. “What do you mean we have no right to discuss the war? Jack is _in the military_. She could die in this war. She has every right to be concerned whether or not - or rather, _when_ \- it will find its way to us. And you sit back as if you welcome it!”

 

Jack remains silent but she regards Mary Margaret with a steely sort of respect, and that merely bolsters her resolve.

 

“What sort of man would do that?” she demands, and feels David’s hold on her leg tighten.

 

Albert smiles. The bastard actually _smiles_ as he responds, “A man whose very livelihood depends on it.”

 

She actually feels sick to her stomach now, wondering how such a vile human being can even exist (and then she thinks of what’s happening in Europe, and realizes this is merely the tip of the iceberg). “So that’s what this is about? Money?”

 

“In a way,” says Albert, running his finger along the rim of his wineglass. “It’s about power. And in this world? Money is power. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you _Miss Blanchard_?”

 

It’s a jab at her father, about his wealthy estate that has dwindled to nothing, about poorly kept books and a young wife with a talent for fine print. It’s a low blow, and moreover, it’s the last straw.

 

“Excuse me,” she says tightly, rising as she tosses her napkin onto the table. “I need to … powder my nose.”

 

Admittedly, she doesn’t know where she’s going - the house is large and maze-like, a stark contrast to her own small apartment - so she finds herself in an office of some sort, pacing back and forth and debating making an escape out the window.

 

She loves David, but given the chance she would throw his brother and step-father to the wolves.

 

“I apologize for my husband.”

 

She startles, turning to find Ruth in the doorway. “I-- uh--”

 

“He’s a prick,” Ruth says flatly, and comes over to perch on the edge of the desk.

 

“No offense, but he really is.”

 

She stills her pacing and regards Ruth, watching the older woman gather her thoughts. “Thank you for coming tonight. I can’t imagine you’re having a good time, but I was really eager to meet you.”

 

“Me too. David speaks very highly of you.”

 

Ruth smiles - a mother’s smile, with all the warmth and gentleness she remembers from her own mother. “He’s a good boy.”

 

“A good man,” Mary Margaret corrects gently.

 

“He loves you, you know. Head over heels, completely smitten in love.”

 

She swallows thickly, feeling a great weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders with those words. He’s said he loves her of course, perhaps a hundred times now, but hearing it like this - as such bare, unabashed fact - is different. “I won’t hurt him,” she swears, perching on the desk beside Ruth.

 

“I know. Because you love him.”

 

“More than anything,” she blurts before she can stop herself, and then she feels the blood rushing to her cheeks and ears.

 

“I know,” Ruth says again, her voice softer now. “I’m glad he’s found you. I worried that--”

 

She’s cut off by the sound of David’s voice calling down the hallway. “Mother? Mary Margaret?”

 

Ruth sighs, then nudges her teasingly. “Seems that we’ve been found out.”

 

Mary Margaret grins. “He certainly has a knack for it.”

 

“It’s about time for dessert anyway,” Ruth says, sliding off the desk with a groan. “And then James and Albert will go on a cigar-smoking marathon, so you’re almost in the clear.”

 

“Thank god,” Mary Margaret laughs, sliding off the desk as well.

 

David finds them, looking at once relieved and a bit nervous at their giggling. He has nothing to worry about, of course, but it seems that - like her - Ruth is going to let him sweat.

 

(Maybe he does have something to worry about, after all.)

 

\--

 

Dinner ends with no actual bloodshed, and David considers it a success on that criteria alone. Albert and James barely bother to offer him and Mary Margaret a hasty handshake goodbye, but the ladies all embrace tightly - Ruth insisting on taking Mary Margaret out for lunch, and Jack promising to send a postcard from Hawaii when she returns to duty next week.

 

But success or not, it was exhausting, and he finds Mary Margaret - wrapped tightly in his jacket, with his sleeves covering her fingers - leaning heavily against him as they make their way to her apartment.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss against her hair.

 

“Mm, what for?”

 

“Putting up with my crazy family tonight. It really means a lot to me.”

 

She slumps against him and yawns as they turn onto her street. “Crazy or not, at least you _have_ a family.”

 

And it’s in that moment that it hits him - not like a ton of bricks or a freight train, but rather like her fist on that very first night. He grinds to a halt. He really should have seen this coming, should have known that the reason she was free on a family holiday was that she _has no family of her own_. The closest she has is Ruby; Ruby who’s only recently married and starting a new life. “Mary Margaret--”

 

“I like your mother,” she says wistfully, cutting him off. “Reminds me of my own.”

 

David feels his heart break, shatter into a million pieces at those words. And so he pulls her into his arms - there on the doorstep of her apartment building where she’d first kissed him - and holds on, willing her never to be alone again.

 


	6. Keep calm and carry on.

**Keep calm and carry on.**

 

_Mrs. Spencer,_

_I’m writing to thank you for inviting me to spend Thanksgiving with your family.  Despite how it may have seemed, I really did have a lovely time and was so glad to meet you.  I hope my little outburst at dinner didn’t sully your impression of me.  I was hoping we could arrange that lunch date we were discussing?  I’d really like to get to know you better._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Mary Margaret Blanchard._

_Received December 2, 1941._

 

\--

 

On a cold afternoon when the sky is clear, Mary Margaret takes David up in her plane.  There really isn’t room for them in the same seat, but they manage, curled up in the narrow cockpit together as they soar over the dormant fields.

 

He isn’t sure why he’d thought convincing her was a good idea.  It may be that he’s never been on an airplane before, or that maybe that he takes every opportunity he can get to spend with her, eager to see what her world is like, what makes her tick.  But whatever it was, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

Now? Not so much.

 

He’d had in mind some romantic flight, some mood setting and snuggling as she leans against his chest.  Maybe some more … _fun_ when they come back down.  But Mary Margaret has never been quite what he’s expected, surprising him at every turn.

 

So he should have seen this coming - seen it in her mischievous smile, should have _really_ seen it when she asked if he had a strong stomach.  No, the barrel rolls _really_ shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise.

 

She’s shrieking with delight though, so maybe that’s enough to make up for the queasy sensation in his stomach.

 

“So this is what you do all day?” he yells over the noise.

 

“No,” she replies, and that mischievous tone returns.  He knows he should have just kept quiet.  “But this is.”

 

They rush at the ground, a complete nose dive until she pulls up on the throttle and the plane goes swooping close to the ground.

 

Maybe they should have stuck to the barrel rolls after all.

 

“Getting scared yet?” she challenges.

 

“Never,” he replies, though he’s got a white-knuckle grip on anything and everything he can reach.

 

It only takes her a moment to notice his discomfort, and she sets the plane down almost immediately, landing them in the empty field.  His heart is still pounding in his chest as they touch down, and his hands ache from holding on so tightly.

 

“So?” she prompts, turning to face him.  “What did you think?”

 

His thoughts are still a blur, though, and so when he doesn’t respond she hauls herself out of the plane and offers him her hands.  He blinks at her once, then twice, before regaining his senses and releasing his grip.

 

“Sorry,” she says, sounding maybe a little honest and maybe a little amused at his discomfort.  “That was kind of mean.”

 

He takes her proffered hands and stumbles out of the cockpit.  “What?”

 

She steadies him, obviously holding back a smile.  “The stunts.  I should have taken it a little easier on you for your first time.”

 

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, though as he feels the ground firm beneath his feet - an assurance that her madness is indeed survivable - the adrenaline catches up to him, and he thinks he could go again.  (He dare not tell her, though, because he’s certain she’s got even more tricks up her sleeve.)  “But you’re hardly one for convention.”

 

“I guess not.”  She hops up onto her toes to kiss him.  “Thank you for putting up with me.”

 

“I’m not putting up with anything.  I enjoy every moment with you.”  He grins, pushing an errant curl behind her ear.  “Even when you’re flying us to our doom.”

 

“Hey,” she protests, punching him softly in the gut.  “I was in complete control.”

 

He ignores that, prodding her in the ribs.  “Although I suppose there are worse ways to go.”

 

“Charming,” she warns.

 

The queasiness from the flight waning, he scoops her up in his arms, kissing her in the dwindling sun of the late-November afternoon.

 

\--

 

Ruth smiles at the letter.  The girl was raised well, it seems, for her to write an apology for her (rather justified) outburst.  But what she admires more is the outburst itself.  David has always been strong-willed - not brazen about it like his brother - but honest and stubborn nonetheless.  He would never be happy with a woman who’s content to sit idly by.  He needs the challenge.

 

And Mary Margaret?  She’s got that same spirit.

 

Lunch would be good, though.  There are a few other things she’d like to discuss with the girl.

 

She reaches for her stationery to compose a response, then hesitates upon seeing the document on her desk.  It’s a bit unorthodox, she realizes.  And she has very few assets of her own.

 

But it feels right, and maybe that’s all that matters.

 

She drafts the addendum with care, signing and dating the bottom before replying to Mary Margaret.

 

_Thursday at noon, the cafe on Third.  My treat._

 

\--

 

It isn’t the first time - far from it, in fact - but Mary Margaret’s breath catches in her throat as David makes his way through the front door of the Rabbit Hole and sidles up to his regular booth.  Singing has always been a personal pleasure for her, something almost too intimate to share.  Her father had never understood that, not really.  He’d insisted it was a talent to be shared, to cultivate.  At the time, she’d almost resented him for it, but now - living on her own and just scraping by - she realizes that even if he’d stolen something precious from her, he’d given her a profitable skill.

 

So she’s made it impersonal.  A job.  A living.  It’s meant nothing for so long, that it hits her in a rush when David’s there turning her whole world on its head.

 

She feels her voice catch, not on a high note, but on a low one as her eyes meet his.  It’s personal now.  Even though she’s only ever sung to him like this, never in private, it’s still such a special part of her soul to bare, a special part to share.

 

The music ends, and the proprietor - Jefferson’s less-than-sober cousin - hastily makes his way to the stage.

 

“Snow White, ladies and gentlemen.”

 

The applause resumes and she slips away, pulling her wrap around her shoulders and sneaking over to David’s booth.

 

“Hello stranger,” she croons, leaning on her elbows across the table.  It’s a game they play - some sort of pretend play that they’re strangers in some other life, finding one another over and over again.  “Come for the show?”

 

He grins, picking at a shallow dish of peanuts.  “Well, I certainly didn’t come for the food.”

 

She laughs, a throaty sound full of promise for the night to come.  “You’re a little late then.”

 

“Maybe I was hoping for an encore.”

 

“Mm,” she hums, pretending to consider.  “Don’t do encores.”

 

“Well, what about a -- private show?” he asks, voice low. “ _Snow White_.”  He licks his lips, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his own.

 

She swallows thickly, turning her hand to press her palm against his.  “That I could manage.”

 

It’s how the game always ends, she thinks.  Maybe someday she’ll make him work more for it, draw out the anticipation.  But tonight isn’t that night, and she tugs him up by his sleeve, biting her lip.  He throws enough bills on the table to cover his tab before guiding her out of the bar, one hand pressing gently at the small of her back.

 

\--

 

There are many drawbacks to being the town drunk, Leroy thinks.  It brings business down for one thing, and for another, the doc says his liver ain’t doing so great.  Not to mention with all this bullshit in Europe, the cost of liquor’s through the roof.  But there are some perks, too.

 

He comes to the Rabbit Hole on the nights Mary Margaret sings.  He knows she’s grown up now, and more than capable of handling herself.  (These two aren’t mutually exclusive of course - she first knocked a kid’s tooth loose when she was only twelve.)  But all the same, he feels responsible for her.  There’s far too much evil in this world to be too careful.

 

He scans the crowd for any creeps eyeing her with less than innocent thoughts.  They’re his friends - a good lot they are - but even the best of men can turn bad with a little booze.  The crowd is tamer than usual tonight, no bad intentions at all.

 

And then he spots him.  David.

 

The boy looks like he’s imagining her naked (though there’s probably not much _imagining_ to it).  Any other guy and he’d knock the kid’s lights out.  But David?  She seems to like him, and that’s good enough for Leroy.

 

(Boy’s probably here for the same reason, actually.  Leroy may be out of a job sooner than he’d like to think.)

 

The waitress brings him his third beer and he thanks her gruffly, distracted by the low sounds of David’s and Mary Margaret’s conversation.

 

_“Well, what about a -- private show?_ Snow White _.”_

 

_“That I could manage.”_

 

Leroy nearly chokes on his drink.  If the boy really needed to imagine before, he won’t need to soon.  It seems little Mary Margaret is all grown up now, and as much as that thought saddens him, Leroy knows it’s for the best.  She’s happier than she’s been in a long while, and if the kid’s dreamy expression is any indication, the happiness isn’t stopping for a long while.

 

Love, he thinks, taking a long draw of his beer.  He had it once.  He watches them steal away and hopes it’ll last longer for them than it had for him.

 

\--

 

They stumble down the street together, giddy and drunk on rum and each other.  He pauses to kiss her under the streetlight, pulling away to work his fingers through her hair, damp with melted snow.  She’s beautiful, porcelain skin aglow in the lamplight, and snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.  It’s almost too much to bear, too perfect a moment to last forever, but maybe - just maybe - it might.  True love, a family, and her at his side for all eternity?  He’ll do anything to make it happen.

 

He’s so overwhelmed, he breaks the role-play, lost in the moment.  “God, I love you,” he breathes and kisses her again, just because he can.

 

She parts her lips with a sigh, breathing him in.

 

“My apartment’s only two blocks away,” he offers just as she rises on her toes to brush her lips against his.

 

“Good enough for me,” she replies, pressing her forehead to his.

 

They run now, him dragging her by the hand through the icy streets and into the back alley that leads to his apartment.  By the time they stumble up the stairs, they’re both laughing, unable to control themselves, to keep hands and lips from wandering.  Even as he turns to scrape his key in the lock, she holds onto him from behind, kissing the nape of his neck, and when the door finally swings open, she’s shoving him inside, pushing his jacket off his shoulders as she rises up to meet his kiss.

 

They don’t bother with the lights, working by the glow of the streetlamp outside as he fumbles with the fastenings of her dress, as nervous as he’d been the very first time.  The newness of this never fades, the excitement of her bare skin just as fresh as the time before.  He undresses her slowly - exploring each new expanse of flesh with his fingers, his lips - his touch gentle as if she might break.  Her mouth is warm against his neck as she works at his clothes as well, her skin soft against his.

 

She’s trembling as he guides her across the room to the bed, lowering her slowly as he settles between her thighs.  She leans up to kiss him, cradling his face in her palms.  “Snow,” he sighs, lips still lingering against hers.

 

She kisses him again in response, fingernails grazing against his back, then whispers, “Charming.”

 

Snow and Charming, like from sort of fairytale, he thinks faintly as her lips trace a path down his neck.  Their story is a far cry from the bedtime stories of his childhood.  She’s anything but a damsel in distress, and he isn’t exactly a knight in shining armor, but he’s willing to overlook that in favor of happily-ever-after.  They’ll write their own story in time.

 

He leans his forehead against hers as he presses into her, closing his eyes and biting back a whimper at the sensation of her wet and tight around him.  He cups her face in his hand and draws his thumb across her cheekbone, reveling in the way she moves her hips against him, the way her eyes meet his, lidded and dark with desire.

 

“Snow,” he murmurs, tasting the name on his tongue again, then closes his mouth over hers to taste her as well.  Snow.  Mary Margaret.  Her names are misleading, sounding fragile and innocent when she’s anything but.  She’s the strongest person he knows - strong, as her legs curve around his hips and then his waist as she pulls him deeper, as she bites down on his lip and pulls at his hair with those delicate fingers.  Strong.

 

He moves, pulling out then pushing back in, watching her gasp, feeling her writhe impatiently beneath him.

 

“David--”

 

“Mm?” he hums, moving out and in again, shuddering as he feels her tighten around him.  He kisses the skin behind her ear, nosing past her hair.

 

“Please,” she demands, urging him in with her legs and grinding her hips against his.

 

He complies, quickening his pace as she moves her hips to meet his, limbs tangled around him.  He can feel it - the way she builds with him.  He feels it in the trembling of her legs as he moves faster and faster, the way she comes apart a moment before him, just as he presses his fingertips against her where they’re joined.  He feels it - how much she loves him; feels it in the way she draws him closer even after they’ve finished, her hand cradling the back of his neck.

 

He’s too heavy for her, he knows, so when he can finally muster the strength, he pushes himself up on his elbow to look at her.  She’s still catching her breath, eyes closed against the lamplight streaming in through the window.  Her hair’s all mussed and still damp from the snow, and her makeup is smeared.

 

She’s beautiful.

 

He leans down to kiss her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.

 

“David,” she murmurs, moving her hand to cup his cheek.

 

He turns to kiss her palm.  “Hm?”

 

“Nothing,” she whispers, opening her eyes.  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

 

He moves to lie alongside her, pulling the covers up to guard against the winter chill.  “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” she replies, tucking her head beneath his chin as she curls into him.  “Like hearing you.”

 

“What would you like me to talk about then?” he soothes, gently working the snarls out of her hair.

 

“Tell me a story?”

 

He thinks back to his childhood, to the days on the farm when his mother would tuck him and James in side-by-side, then sit on the edge of the bed with a thick book of stories on her lap.  She’d read them each perhaps a dozen times over the years, and so even though he doesn’t know the tale word for word, he knows well enough to paraphrase.

 

“ _Once upon a time_ ,” he says, pausing to press a kiss to the crown of her head, “ _in the middle of winter, when the snow was falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at her window sewing, and the window frame was made of black ebony …_ ”

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret wakes to the smell of bacon and eggs, and the sounds of David piddling around in the kitchen.  Well, what amounts to a kitchen, anyway.  The studio is barely big enough for one person, let alone two, and when she opens her eyes she finds him standing at the stove in his underwear.  It takes her a moment to find his shirt from the night before, and she slips it on, the tails falling past her hips and the sleeves past her fingers.

 

“Sleep well?” he asks over his shoulder.

 

She slips her arms around him from behind, leaning her cheek against his shoulder blade.  “Mhm.”

 

“Hungry?”

 

She grins, hugging him closer.  “Famished.”

 

“Good,” he says, turning in her arms and greeting her with a light kiss.  “Because breakfast is ready.”

 

David doesn’t have a kitchen table at all, so they eat in bed, leaning back against the wall with their legs entwined, tangled in the sheets.  It isn’t really morning anymore, waking up just past noon after their late night rendezvous the evening before, but it’s a Sunday, and neither of them have anywhere to be going, nothing to do but sit and bask in the comfort of each other’s company.

 

So they eat breakfast in the afternoon, and wash the dishes together, having no less than two water-fights in the process.  If this would be their life together - late nights of lovemaking and later mornings of chores side-by-side - it would be enough.

 

He turns on the radio and pulls her into his arms, one hand warm against her back, the other clasping hers over his heart.  They dance, swaying to and fro, half naked in each other’s arms right there in the middle of his apartment.

 

This would be their life, she thinks with a sigh.  This would be more than enough.

 

“Snow,” he says softly.  The name stirs something within her, a memory of a time long ago, of days spent winding around her mother’s legs, hands caught in her apron strings.  Of echoing her mother’s song with unpracticed skill.  She was happy then, just as she’s happy now.

 

“Yes, Charming?” she murmurs, drawing even closer to him.

 

She feels him swallow hard, feels his arm tighten around her.  “I have -- something I’d like to ask you.”

 

Their life together, she thinks.  Her heart races, and she tilts her head up to look at him.  “Yes?”

 

“I know --” he stammers, stumbling over the words.  This isn’t planned.  But maybe it shouldn’t be.  Maybe this is how it should be.  “I know maybe not now, but someday maybe--”

 

The music stops abruptly.  The swaying stops, too, as the emergency report comes in.  Breaking news.

 

Breaking news.

 

Her hand closes around his arm, squeezing hard, his arms curve around her in a possessive grip.

 

“ _We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin: the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii by air, President Roosevelt has just announced_.”

 

The Japanese.

 

Attack.

 

War.

 

Mary Margaret’s mind spins, her stomach turns and she feels the world crashing down around her.  War.  Death.  The certainty and promise of their future together, so bright and tangible just moments before, is lost in the uncertainty of the world.  Lost.

 

Tears sting her eyes and she holds onto him as if she’s falling.  “David--”

 

“ _The attack also was made on all naval and military activities on the principal island of Oahu. We take you now to Washington._ ”

 

This is it, she thinks.  The proverbial other shoe.  The disaster she’s been waiting for.  It’s here and there’s nothing to be said, and yet everything to be done.  She looks up at David to find him equally as lost, equal in his fear and outrage.  Equal in everything as their world is turned upside down.  This is it.

 

War is here.

 


	7. Holiday at home.

**Holiday at home.**

 

_Hope all is well! Greetings and happy holidays from Pearl Harbor. Hoping you’ll have a white Christmas because we certainly won’t!_

_-Jack_

 

_Received December 8, 1941._

 

\--

 

Jack had been from the next town over - a small-town sweetheart taking on the world, hoping for better things. It really isn’t far, so when Mary Margaret reads about the memorial service in the paper, David borrows a car from the garage and they make the trip to pay their respects.

 

James doesn’t come.

 

They didn’t know her well. Only met her once, in fact, but her loss weighs heavily on their shoulders; a warning of what is yet to come, of what may be lost. Mary Margaret thinks of Lacey; thinks of Mr. Gold’s offer. She thinks of the anger, the outrage. She imagines her whole world slipping between her fingers; even as she clings tightly to David’s hand, she sees his eyes catch on a recruitment poster.

 

David wordlessly pulls the car into the garage. There’s more to be said than can ever be spoken, but there are no words; only the affirmation of his hand closing tightly over her own.

 

“ _The draft’s coming down again soon_.”

 

“ _Yeah, but Sean here will be the first of us to get picked up_.”

 

Everyone’s here, it seems. In their time together, Mary Margaret has grown rather fond of David’s friends and co-workers, and the sudden thought that one of them - _any_ of them - may be lost in this war is now a bleak reality; an eventuality more than a possibility as the draft numbers are pulled.

 

It seems another has come to this conclusion as well; as they round the car, she spies a new face - a blonde of no more than eighteen, tucked close against Sean’s side. She’s put on a brave face, smiling because it’s the only thing holding the tears at bay. Mary Margaret knows that expression, knows she wears it too these days. They all do, she thinks, in their own way.

 

Sean smiles too, when he sees them. It’s more genuine, though. Not as forced. “David! You’re back already.”

 

“It was a -- simple service,” David replies, pushing back the sadness. “Is Mr. Collodi still around? I wanted to thank him for letting me borrow the car.”

 

“He’s left for the day,” says Billy.

 

“Guess I’ll wait for tomorrow, then,” David decides. The conversation resumes; a debate on the merits of enlisting versus waiting for the draft. They’re brave men, all of them; all eager to fight for their country. But they’re smart too. After all, being willing to die for a cause is one thing, but running blindly into battle is another. David is quiet for the most part, but she feels the familiar weight of panic on her chest whenever he speaks.

 

There is nothing good or even comforting that can be said. For every little quirk of his that makes her beam with pride, she feels a piece of her heart shatter. For all of his bravery, she fears losing him the most.

 

She catches the girl’s gaze from across the room, momentarily blocking out the boys’ conversation. There’s understanding there, an instant connection between two human beings; two women on the precipice of being thrown into a life neither is prepared for.

 

The girl clears her throat and nudges Sean with her elbow. He peels his attention from the conversation and leans down for her to whisper in his ear.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sean murmurs. “Ashley, this is my friend David and his girlfriend, Mary Margaret. David? Mary Margaret? This is my girlfriend, Ashley.”

 

Mary Margaret forces the smile back into place and crosses the room to offer Ashley her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Likewise,” the younger girl replies, clasping Mary Margaret’s hand.

 

David reaches to greet her as well, but a familiar voice interrupts the introduction. A familiar voice that is completely out of place.

 

“ _Mary Margaret!”_

 

Mary Margaret frowns and turns. No, it couldn’t be.

 

“ _Mary Margaret!”_

 

Why would she come here?

 

Whatever the reason, Ruby is here, pushing through the door between the front office and the workshop, fresh tears alight on her cheeks. It’s suddenly clear why Mary Margaret’s stomach has been in knots all day; achingly clear as Ruby buries herself in her arms.

 

Her gaze locks with David’s as he carefully presses a hand against Ruby’s back. He knows; they both know, even before Ruby says it.

 

“Peter enlisted,” she sobs. “He leaves in a week.”

 

\--

 

It’s his choice, David knows.

 

His life. His choice. He’s lived by those words for as long as he can remember, a token of wisdom passed from father to son. He could have chosen to live a cushy life working for Albert. He could be living in luxury. But he’d chosen himself - the dream of a simple life with a family. His choice.

 

But Mary Margaret.

 

He loves her; there is no doubt in his mind about that. He’s loved her from the very first moment he saw her, and as she’d struck him it had hit him like a blinding light. And with that, he knew there would be no life without her.

 

They aren’t married, though; not even engaged - despite his impulsive attempt to change that fact. If he died now, he wouldn’t leave her as a widow.

 

(If he died now, he would never have the joy of calling her his wife.)

 

They aren’t married, and though he _feels_ this is her decision as much as it is his own …

 

His mother will know what to do.

 

She’s upset though, wringing her handkerchief between her hands, grip so tight her knuckles have turned white. She’s always been good at composing herself in public, and even now she’s so very aware of the other patrons scattered around the cafe, so careful to keep their conversation light if a bit forced. He remembers this - the uncertainty, the edginess to her demeanor - from the days following his father’s death. Something’s wrong.

 

“Mary Margaret asked me to apologize for having to cancel on you,” he says finally, hoping to segue into this all-too important conversation. He reaches across the table to still his mother’s trembling hands. “Lately things have been a little -- turned upside down.”

 

She nods, releasing her kerchief to clasp his hand with equal strength. “I understand. Send my love, though? After all, she is the girl my son is going to marry.”

 

He stills at that - he hadn’t told her. “Mother …” Her face, though - it isn’t alight with that familiar warmth, the familiar teasing tone suspiciously absent. “Mother,” he says more seriously. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

 

She swallows thickly, and he feels her fingernails press painfully into his palm. “It’s your brother,” she says, carefully composed. “He’s enlisted.”

 

So that’s it then, he thinks, mind reeling. James has enlisted, probably without even a word to his mother; certainly without a word to him. It’s classic James; never thinking about anyone other than himself, though a part of David hopes that he might have done it for Jack. Jack, who died a hero--

 

No. He has to say it now, or he won’t be able to. “Mother,” he says, covering her hand with both of his. “There’s something I need to ask you -- tell you -- I don’t know.”

 

Her voice breaks. She knows. “You can tell me.”

 

“Mother,” he sighs. “I--”

 

But he’s spared the pain of telling her he’d like to enlist.

 

This pain? Is far worse. His mother has grown still, her face drawn in pain. And as she brings one hand to her chest, he feels his own heart break, feels the pang of terror pull at his gut.

 

“Mother? Mother, are you all right?”

 

She shakes her head and clings more tightly to his hand.

 

He thinks of his father; of a simple wooden casket draped in wildflowers.

 

It takes only a split second for him to take control of the situation, to rise from his seat and rush to her side. “A doctor! Is anyone here a doctor?!”

 

\--

 

David is haggard and unshaven when he answers the door, with dark circles rounding his eyes and his belt unbuckled and hanging from his pants. For a brief moment, Mary Margaret is almost grateful (but she quickly shoos the thought from her mind, feeling completely awful). Grateful yes, she decides. Grateful that he’s alive and looking at her with love even beyond the exhaustion. Not grateful, she reminds herself again - despite not having heard from him in five days - for his wearied appearance.

 

(Not heard from him in five days spent wondering if he’s changed his mind; if he hadn’t been asking her to marry him, if now he’s run off and joined the Army only to leave her behind just as everyone else has.)

 

“I was worried about you,” she says, no greeting.

 

He frowns. “Worried?”

 

“I haven’t heard from you in almost a week, Charming,” she says, his apparent exhaustion managing to curb her anger. “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine,” he replies shortly.

 

Then why haven’t you talked to me? “Peter leaves tonight. At eight. I was going to the station with Ruby to see him off. I think she needs the -- the support.”

 

“Oh,” he says lamely, and she sees his mind work - she knows him well enough - counting the days. “Good. That’s -- that’s good.”

 

“I was hoping -- that you would come with me?” she asks, a question more than a statement, and then her voice grows small. “I might -- need the support too.”

 

A deep sadness flickers behind his eyes, something even she hasn’t seen from him before. “Mary Margaret,” he sighs. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

 

There’s something off about him, something wholly different from ever before, but she has no idea what to make of it. She trusts him to tell her in good time, trusts him with her heart - her body and her spirit too - but she’s spent too much of her life surrounded by betrayal. Last time she’d let her guard down, she’d gone from a place of privilege to making desperate deals with Mr. Gold just to pay last month’s rent. She can’t afford to be on the losing end again.

 

“Can’t?” she demands. “Or won’t?”

 

“It’s not -- I--” he stammers, reaching out to touch her but stopping just before his hand finds her shoulder. “Mary Margaret--”

 

“You can tell me, you know,” she tries, more gently than before, but she’s met only by silence. Silence and the heavy weight of _something_ between them. She sighs, pulling away from the door. “Fine, _David_. I’ll just -- do it myself. When you’re ready to talk -- you know where to find me.”

 

\--

 

They’re on their second beer before either manages to speak, staring into their glasses instead of at each other. (Too much like a mirror, David thinks. Like a mirror that reflects everything you’re running from, everything you hoped you wouldn’t be.)

 

“Mother’s sick.”

 

“Really sick,” David agrees.

 

“And I’m leaving.”

 

“You didn’t know, James.”

 

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

 

“I know,” David sighs. He knows.

 

“What about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“You’ve always been about honor, fighting for what you believe in. You signing up?”

 

David answers carefully, tracing paths in the condensation on his glass. “I -- I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know?” James laughs, but it’s dry and humorless. “How do you not know?”

 

“Well, Mother--”

 

“Would want you to go if that’s what you really wanted,” James finishes for him. “She could never say ‘no’ to you and you know it. This is about that girl, isn’t it?”

 

“Woman,” he corrects automatically. “And she has a name, you know.”

 

“Fine. Mary something,” he amends, waving him off before taking a gulp of beer. “This is about her though, isn’t it?”

 

David is quiet for a long moment. He’s rarely opened up to his brother in the past. Ever since their father passed away, they’d grown apart. David had always known the details of James’ raucous social life, but he’d held his own much closer to his heart. And Mary Margaret? She’s as intimate as it gets. “I was going to ask her to marry me,” he says quietly.

 

James blanches. “You -- what?!”

 

“I love her.”

 

“I’m going to spare you the lecture on how love and marriage are all a sham and skip to the part where you’ll listen: what the hell’s the problem?”

 

David groans, pressing his face into his palms. “I want to go, but I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave Mother.”

 

“Then it seems your mind’s made up anyway,” James points out.

 

“It isn’t that simple.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

David snorts. “What am I even doing asking for advice from you? You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

 

James chuckles in agreement, but there’s a sad edge to his voice, a distant focus to his gaze.

 

David takes a long draw of beer, savoring the cool burn.

 

They’re silent again, until the bartender comes with fresh drinks for them to nurse.

 

“Are you doing it for her?” David asks softly, thinking of a postcard from Hawaii arriving a day too late.

 

“I’m doing it for me,” James states evenly, then traces his fingertip around the rim of his glass. “For me.”

 

\--

 

Ruby doesn't cry at first. Not really. There are only a few tears as she kisses Peter and vows to wait for him. "Forever if I have to," she says as his fingers slip from hers.

 

It's only when they've made it back home, when Ruby is curled up tightly in her old bed that Mary Margaret hears the muffled sobs. It’s only then that her heart truly breaks. As children, there had always been something she could do - a dressing for a skinned knee, sweets stolen from the kitchen when she’d caught Bobby Anderson kissing another girl. But now? Now, there’s nothing to be done, nothing Mary Margaret can do to make this better.

 

Powerless.

 

And so she does the only thing she can think of, and slips into bed beside Ruby, rubbing her hand against the younger girl’s arm. “Hey,” she whispers. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”

 

“No, it won’t,” Ruby protests weakly.

 

“It’s only training. He might get a weekend pass and you’ll see him before he leaves for Europe.” Ruby seems unconvinced, and in fact Mary Margaret can’t find any faith to put behind the words. But she smiles through, and forces laughter into her voice. “You never know, they might be training him for something real special, and the war will be over before he even gets there.”

 

Ruby snorts softly, and for a moment it almost sounds like laughter. "Mary Margaret," she whispers. "I don't think I'm ever going to see him again."

 

Mary Margaret wants to tell her otherwise, to insist that if she has faith, all will be right in the end. But all she feels between them in the narrow bed is hopelessness and fear.

 

\--

 

Albert isn’t much of a father. Perhaps to James, but not to David.

 

But now David needs a father.

 

He’s known Mr. Collodi most of his life. The old man had been friends with his father, a mentor of sorts. He remembers one time when they were young - he and James - no older than five, Mr. Collodi had come by on Christmas Eve with two wooden swords. “ _To vanquish the dragons, neh?_ ” He’d watched from the porch, there with his mother and father, as they’d raced through the snow-covered fields, battling each other and slaying the dragons - in disguise as sheep - to save imaginary princesses.

 

It’s Christmas Eve again, and his father is dead. It’s Christmas Eve and his mother is ill; his brother is off to war.

 

It’s Christmas Eve and the love of his life is alone, because he can’t bear the thought of sharing this burden.

 

He doesn’t know why he thinks Marco will be at the garage - everyone has the day off - and his home is only a few blocks away. But David’s weary feet have carried him here, numb from the cold, so he stops in front of the door, wondering what he’ll even say.

 

The door opens on its own, but it isn’t Marco.

 

“Pastor Hopper.”

 

The man smiles, tugging a hat over his thinning red hair and adjusting his glasses. “David, you know you can call me Archie.” He does know, of course. He’s known Archie for years as well, watching as the young pastor had stepped in to fill the place his own father had left behind in Marco’s life. They weren’t close - David wasn’t as religious as his mother had always hoped him to be - but he always had a friendly smile and an ear to listen.

 

“Right,” David murmurs. “Sorry.”

 

“Were you looking for Marco? He asked me to drop by and pick up some things.”

 

“No,” David says, shaking his head. “No, I was just-- well, maybe.”

 

Archie locks the door and tugs on it twice, just to be sure. “Something’s bothering you,” he says - a statement, not a question.

 

David doesn’t reply, feeling suddenly ashamed at having apparently come to ruin someone’s holiday with his own worries. He feels the blood rush to his cheeks.

 

Archie eyes him for a long moment, then claps him on the shoulder and sets about steering him down the sidewalk. “Let’s talk.”

 

There’s a little diner just a block away, still open even so late on Christmas Eve. The place is mostly empty, though, tended by a waitress who seems weary beyond her years, wearing a wedding ring but no eagerness for her shift to end. Alone for the holidays, David thinks. A husband off to war. (Wondering if she’ll soon be a widow, he thinks with sadness.) She pours them each a cup of coffee, and they warm their palms against the hot ceramic.

 

David’s certain his story is far from coherent - bits and pieces of his life that he’s held so dear, as if these fragments could convey the whole story. He talks of the time spent in the hospital, the endless lists of medications and procedures, prognoses that make his heart sink; of James’ enlistment, of Albert’s sudden business boom with the war, of a mother left alone and ill; of late night picnics with Mary Margaret, of baking cupcakes and icing battles, of a life together they’ve yet to live.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” he says finally. He takes a sip of coffee and grimaces, finding it’s turned cold. “My mother would be all alone. And sick. And Mary Margaret--”

 

“Then don’t go.”

 

“But--”

 

“David,” Archie says, interrupting him. “No-one is making you do anything. Not until -- not until the draft comes for you. If it ever does. No-one will blame you for staying with your ill mother. No-one will blame you for defending your country. The choice is yours.” David inhales deeply, exhales shakily. Archie lowers his voice, reaching across the table to close his hand over David’s arm. “How long does she have?”

 

David swallows thickly. “Months. A year at best.”

 

Archie’s grip tightens. “I’m sorry, David.”

 

“What do I do?”

 

“Well,” Archie sighs. “What do you want to do? Do you want to be here for her? For when she passes?”

 

“Of course,” David replies.

 

“Then -- if you want a plan, I mean -- you should stay for now, and when--”

 

David nods, not wanting to hear the rest. He understands. “Thank you.”

 

Archie smiles. “Giving advice is what I do best.” He rises, gathering the bag he’d collected from the garage and dropping some money onto the table for their coffee. “You had the answer in you all along, though. Sometimes our conscience just needs a little help.”

 

“Still,” David says, rising as well, pulling out what little change he has in his pocket to pay the man back. “Thank you.”  
  


Archie waves him off. “Save it for your girl. It sounds like you need to talk to her.” He pulls on his hat. “Merry Christmas, David.”

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret had originally taken the night off. It’s Christmas Eve after all, and for the first time in as long as she can remember she has somewhere to go. Of course she’s always had Ruby and Granny, and while they were family to her, she couldn’t help but feel out of place during the holidays. Perhaps it’s that she never even knew her own grandmother, or maybe that it only brought forth memories of loss, of the scent of her mother’s perfume and her father’s pipe tobacco.

  
But David is something all her own. There is no intrusion with him, no wondering if she belongs. They _fit_.

 

At least, she thought so.

 

He hasn’t spoken to her since that terrible meeting two days ago - that terrible night where Ruby cried herself to sleep in her arms. And so she comes into the Rabbit Hole, insistent on making use of the day. She has nowhere to spend Christmas Eve, after all - too frightened that her own sad demeanor will only add to Ruby’s heartbreak.

 

It’s nearing eleven, when the bar will close early for the holiday. She’s on her last set - a song of happiness and promise at Christmastime- and yet the tempo is slow tonight, and the thought of hope, of unabashed dreaming nearly brings tears to her eyes. She swallows thickly as she moves onto the last verse, and sees the door swing open.

 

It’s David, and she feels the winter chill come in with him. His eyes meet hers and she _knows_.

 

She’s seen him sorry before. Perhaps not a thousand times, but enough to know the crease in his brow, the tight smile.

 

When she’s done, she finds him in the alleyway, by the service entrance. Part of her wants nothing more than to rush into his arms, to breathe him in and hold on like she’ll never let go.

 

But she doesn’t.

 

She stands a few feet away, stuffing her hands into her pockets to keep warm. Snow is falling around them, clumping in his hair and her eyelashes. She’s cold to the bone, shivering violently. They should find somewhere else to talk, she thinks. But she doesn’t say anything.

 

He doesn’t speak either.

 

Not at first, at least. He swallows hard, and his breath hitches. He stuffs his own hands into his pockets. “She’s dying,” he chokes.

 

“She’s--” Mary Margaret frowns. “Charming, what are you talking about? Who's dying?” Who who who. No, she knows. She _knows_ but--

 

“She’s dying,” he repeats, a little louder this time but more akin to a sob. “She’s dying and-- Snow, I’m scared.”

 

“Charming,” she whispers, closing the distance between them to dry his tears. Her fingers linger on his cheeks; cold. She can’t say ‘it’s going to be okay’. It isn’t, and she’s said those words far too many times this week, and each time they’ve been a lie. Nothing is going to be okay. Nothing. All she has to offer him is herself. “I’m here,” she says instead, and rises on her toes to press her forehead to his. “I’m here,” she says again, because her strength is the best she can give. She’ll carry him if that’s what it takes, to stay by his side.

 

His apartment is a welcome relief from the ice outside, and they waste no time in stripping off their snow-covered clothes, leaving them in a heap by the radiator to dry. His mouth is warm on hers as he presses her into the bed, but his hands are rough, gripping her hips so tightly she thinks she might bruise. His teeth do, surely, a neat line trailing from clavicle to breast.

 

She cries out when he pushes into her, harder than normal, then pulls him down to meet her kiss. He tastes of tears and snow, and his chest rumbles against her own with barely restrained sobs. She tastes blood when he bites down on her lip, feels the give of the skin on his back beneath her fingernails.

 

He comes first, quick and hard with a cry muffled in the hollow of her throat. She feels his hand slide between them, pressing against her, but she pulls it away, instead clasping it in her own. Not tonight, she thinks.

 

“It’s okay, Charming,” she whispers, then kisses his knuckles.

 

His breath is still coming in shallow gasps; her neck is wet with his tears. “But--”

 

“It’s okay,” she insists, then turns his hand to kiss his palm. “It’s okay.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “What am I going to do?”

 

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and reaches to pull the blankets over them, still cradling him between her thighs. “First, you’re going to get a good night’s sleep,” she says, feeling strong in spite of the overwhelming sense of helplessness. “And then _we_ will figure it out in the morning.”

 

He moves, relieving her of his weight, and she curls around him, pulling his ear to her heart.

 

“Snow?” he murmurs.

 

“Mm?”

 

“Don’t leave?”

 

Her throat tightens, and she swallows thickly, remembering the weight of those words on her own tongue. “Never,” she replies with certainty, and pulls him closer. “Never.”

 

\--

 

When David wakes, Mary Margaret is standing by the stove, working over a steaming pot. The sun is streaming through the window, reflecting off the freshly fallen snow from the night before. She’s beautiful, her hair as wild as ever, and the sleeves of his shirt are falling to her fingertips. It hangs open to her navel, and he sees the remnants of the night before - the trail of teeth marks on her chest, the spattering of purple and blue on her hips. It’s enough to turn his stomach. He closes his eyes and swallows back the disgust.

 

“Good morning,” she says softly, and he feels the bed shift under her weight as she sits down on the edge. She’s got a mug in each hand, smelling of chocolate and cinnamon.

 

He sits up and accepts the mug, leaning against the headboard. He can see the bruises better now, make out each incriminating detail. He reaches forward to touch them, to soothe them with his thumb, but her hand closes over his.

 

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

 

“No--”

 

“It’s okay,” she repeats, and kisses his fingers, his forehead, his lips.

 

He takes a deep breath, swallows hard, then breathes again.

 

“Are you ready to talk about it?” she asks quietly, then blows on her hot chocolate.

 

No, he thinks. “I don’t know.”

 

“Where is she now?” she prompts gently, and pulls her legs into his lap.

 

“The hospital. They -- they’re keeping her there for a few more days. Then they’re sending a nurse for -- for home care.”

 

“Okay,” she says quietly, but doesn’t push further.

 

They’re quiet for a moment, sipping at their drinks. He looks over to the corner, where their meagerly decorated tree resides. It’s hardly more than an oversized branch, barely supporting the garlands of popcorn and cranberries. He thinks of how those cranberries had tasted, sweet on Mary Margaret’s tongue as he’d held the mistletoe above her head.

 

Her hand is warm from holding her drink, warm as she touches his face. “I love you,” she says solemnly, forcing him to look at her. She may have said it first, but she doesn’t say it often, and the sound of it causes his breath to catch in his throat.

 

He takes a cue from her, leaning forward to kiss her instead of saying it back. Her lower lip is still swollen from the night before, and he caresses it softly with his thumb. “I’m sorry -- I don’t have any presents for you today.”

 

“It’s okay, Charming,” she says, and he wonders how many times she can say those words in one day, how they can mean so much every time. “All that matters is that we’re together. That’s all I could ever want.”

 

They abandon their empty mugs on the nightstand and she shifts to lie in his arms. “Me too,” he says, and drops a kiss to her hair.

 

“Merry Christmas, Charming,” she whispers.

 

“Merry Christmas.”


	8. Do with less so they'll have enough.

**Do with less so they’ll have enough.**

 

_My darling Ruby,_

_I don’t know if this will reach you in time, but in any case, happy Valentine’s Day. I’d never thought we’d spend our first holidays as husband and wife apart, but I suppose it’ll only make our first one together even more special. I don’t have much time, but I had to write you. I needed to tell you how much I love you, and how much I dream about you every night. You’ve made me the happiest man alive, and it’s the memory of your face that gets me through each and every day._

_Yours always and forever,_  
Your husband,  
Peter.

_Received February 20, 1942._

 

\--

 

The new year comes, but no-one celebrates.

David sits beside his ailing mother, stuck between his normal shift at the garage and his new shift at the factory, while Mary Margaret moonlights as Snow White at the Rabbit Hole. They’ve both picked up extra jobs, to help the war effort. It’s the least they can do; it’s all they can do.

The chair is stiff, and the springs in the cushions are too well-worn to be comfortable, but it’s good enough for the few hours he can manage.

An hour into his nap, he stirs, woken by the shifting of weight, and smiles faintly to find Mary Margaret sliding into his lap. “What’re you doing here?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s 1942,” she says, then yawns, curling her legs up into the chair with them.

He glances to the clock - just one o’clock in the morning. He’s got a couple more hours yet before his shift.

“Happy new year,” he says lamely, but Mary Margaret is already fast asleep in his arms.

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret spends her birthday at Ruth’s side, clasping the old woman’s hand while she sleeps. It had taken some work to convince David that they need not celebrate - that they couldn’t afford to waste in a time like this, that they had many, many more years ahead to spend in celebration - but he had finally relented. He has an extra long shift at the factory anyway, and she’s sure he’ll be tired.

They’re only excuses, she knows. Really lame ones at that.

But she isn’t ready to tell him the real reason. Someday, she thinks, but not today. It’s painful enough to sit and watch his dying mother on this day, just as she’d watched her own mother pass quietly thirteen years ago.

“What’s wrong, child?”

Startled, Mary Margaret hastily wipes her tears away. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“No,” Ruth frowns, shifting to sit up in bed. “You’re not. Mary Margaret, you know you can tell me anything.”

She hesitates, fight or flight kicking in for a split second before she calms and finds the words. “It’s -- my mother. She -- on my ninth birthday.”

Ruth’s hand closes more tightly over her own. “Do you want to tell me about her?”

Mary Margaret hasn’t spoken of her mother in a long time, not even to David. The memories are too painful - too precious - to share on just any day. Sometimes, when she’s home alone, she’ll take out her mother’s pearls and wedding dress. She’s worn the pearls before, of course - to Ruby’s wedding, on those rare occasions she and David have scraped together enough money for a nice dinner out - but the dress is something different altogether. At first, it had seemed merely a relic from her mother, one of the few things she’d gotten to keep. But as time passed--

Ruth coughs, less violently than usual, and - thank goodness - when she pulls her handkerchief away it isn’t smeared with blood. “Humor an old woman,” she says. “It’ll help take my mind off the -- you know.”

Mary Margaret feels a pang of terror at that, and she swallows thickly. “When I was a little girl,” she says, eyes brimming with tears. “She’d tell me the story of Snow White, every night before bed. It was my favorite. And once - I was very little - I stole her red lipstick and smeared it all over my mouth.” She laughs then, even through the tears, and Ruth smiles. “My mother didn’t yell at me though, she didn’t punish me. She just took her handkerchief and cleaned my cheeks and chin, and she said, ‘Skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony, lips as red as blood. Aren’t you the perfect Snow White?’”

“That’s where the nickname came from then,” Ruth says, and reaches up to wipe her tears.

“I miss her,” Mary Margaret admits quietly.

Ruth doesn’t say anything - she must know better then; know that there’s nothing to fix this, nothing to help. She merely reaches forward and pulls her into a tight embrace, fingers twining through her hair the way only a mother’s can.

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret makes it home from the Rabbit Hole at just fifteen past midnight. Normally, she wouldn’t mind, but it’s _Valentine’s Day_ and she was hoping to have enough time to see David before the night is entirely lost. No such luck, she thinks as she scrapes her key into the lock and pushes the door open.

Or … ?

The lights are still on, and Ruby is lounging on the sofa, but that isn’t what causes her to stop dead in her tracks.

“David?” Sure enough, David is bustling around the kitchen, arranging three plates of spaghetti. “What are you doing here?”

“The real question,” Ruby interjects, sitting up enough to cast her friend a look of half-amusement and half-annoyance, “is where have _you_ been? Your boyfriend wouldn’t let me eat until you came home.”

“David!”

He shrugs defensively, looking absolutely ridiculous in her lacy white apron, holding a sauce-covered spoon in one hand and a plate full of pasta in the other. Despite the knots in her back and her aching feet, it takes all her self-control not to dissolve into giggles at the sight. Just when she thinks she couldn’t possibly love him more, he turns around and does something that steals her heart all over again.

“What? It’s Valentine’s Day.”

She grins, thinking back to his birthday. “Technically not anymore.” He huffs, but meets her kiss enthusiastically. “But what about your mother?”

“She kicked me out.”

“Kicked you out?”

“Just for the night. Said I couldn’t come home until I celebrated with you. Properly.”

Mary Margaret blushes at the thought of a celebration that isn’t exactly _proper_ by most standards. “You really didn’t have to do this, you know.”

He turns to ladle sauce onto each of the three plates of noodles. “I know,” he says, lowering his voice so she can hardly hear him. “But I thought for Ruby -- since Peter’s gone …” He trails off, and the pieces fall into place. Of course. _Of course_. This isn’t just for her benefit - though she’s certain he’d be doing it regardless. He’s doing it for Ruby too - poor Ruby who is still waiting for her next letter from her husband.

“David,” she breathes, then leans up to kiss him again, her hand pressing over his heart. Just when she thought she couldn’t love him more--

“Hey,” Ruby says, interrupting the moment. “Kissing time later. Right now, I’m starving.”

They curl up on the floor - the three of them - leaning back against the sofa as they eat off the coffee table. The spaghetti is good; not the best David has ever made, but enough to fill their bellies, and they split a bottle of sweet wine that none of them can really afford.

David does the dishes, insisting that neither of the ladies lift a finger. Instead, Ruby flips on the gramophone and turns Mary Margaret in circles around the living room, laughing with such pure abandon that’s been absent for nearly two months.

Nearly two months since Peter left, nearly two months since Mary Margaret and David dedicated every spare moment to his mother’s care. It hasn’t been easy, and she feels the weariness in her bones, sees it in David’s eyes as she catches his gaze from across the room. But for now, they’re laughing, then snickering quietly as the neighbors up above stomp for them to be quiet.

David cuts in, pulling Ruby into his arms and swaying from side to side. It’s the only dancing Ruby will be doing for a while, thinks Mary Margaret. She can only imagine the loneliness, the silent hopelessness. Too often, she thinks of life with David at war; an eventuality her subconscious can’t avoid. She listens to Ruby pray every night through the thin walls between their bedrooms. She listens and takes note, memorizes the words and pleas to keep a loved one safe. She’d never really been a girl of belief, but she might just have to invest in a leap of faith.

Ruby retires, casting Mary Margaret a knowing grin as she cuts in. They dance without music, late into the night. She listens to the steady rhythm of his heart, then leans up to kiss him, tasting the sweet wine off his tongue before taking him to bed.

There’s a single red rose waiting on her pillow.

 

\--

 

It’s the last thing Mary Margaret expects, but then again nothing happens as expected anymore.

“Sean and Ashley are getting married,” says David, and she blinks once, then twice.

“What?”

“His number’s up. Gotta report in thirty days. He asked her to marry him before he leaves, and … and she said yes.”

It isn’t unheard of - last minute proposals, emergency weddings. But it’s the talk of newspaper columns, of girly gossip on the factory floor; the stuff of stories. Her hands are working through the dough for this week’s bread and she stalls, covered in puffs of flour, not remembering the last time she showered. “What -- what am I supposed to do?”

He moves to wipe a smudge from her cheek, then kisses her softly. “The wedding’s in two hours. They need two witnesses. I said I’d find you.”

“A wedding?” she balks. “In two hours? But I’m--”

“Absolutely beautiful,” he says, cutting her off.

“But--”

“It’s just a courthouse thing,” he insists. “No-one will care what you’re wearing. Just Sean and Ashley and me.”

She can’t really say ‘no’, so she cleans her face, pulls her fingers through her hair and leaves a note for Ruby on the kitchen counter. The ceremony itself lasts barely ten minutes, and Mary Margaret slips her hand into David’s as Sean vows to protect and care for Ashley for the rest of their days. Those days may be numbered, thinks Mary Margaret, but some days are better than none at all. She thinks of the time spent with Ruth, of watching the bond between mother and son grow stronger, even in the face of death. She thinks of stolen moments and picnics on the living room floor, pretending war is merely the stuff of stories.

They sign the document as Sean and Ashley fall over each other with laughter and kisses. David quietly suggests treating them to dinner or ice cream to celebrate, and Mary Margaret giggles, lowering her voice as she leans up to his ear. “I think they’ve got a -- _different_ celebration in mind for the evening.”

A slight blush creeps into his cheeks, but he grins at her roguishly.

Turns out, they ‘celebrate’ that night as well.

“You think they’ll be okay?” she asks, listening as his heartbeat steadies.

His hand is strong and warm against her back, fingers delicately tracing each vertebrae. “What do you mean?”

“Ashley and Sean,” she clarifies. “Just four weeks of marriage and then they’ll be separated. Maybe even for years. She’ll wait for him, I know. That’s -- that’s what we women are taught to do. Our mothers and aunts and nannies have told us again and again what the war was like for them. We know what’s expected of us, but -- but it can’t be easy. Always waiting and never knowing.”

He presses gentle kisses to her hair, and draws her closer, as if sheer will alone could stop fate. “True love isn’t easy,” he says, and she tilts her head to look at him. He’s too close to focus on, and somehow that’s comforting. “It must be fought for.”

“I’d wait for you,” she says quietly, almost like a prayer. “If--”

“I know,” he says, cutting her off. He doesn’t want to imagine it either, it seems. “And I promise I’d come home. I told you once that I would always find you, and I intend to live up to that.”

She chokes on a snort of laughter. “You’re too stubborn to die,” she jokes, though the thought turns her stomach. She doesn’t want to think it, let alone say it, but speaking the words out loud gives her power.

“And you’re too stubborn to let me,” he shoots back, and she giggles, pulling the covers over them both. It’s easier to joke about it, she thinks, than to dwell on the very real possibility. “You need to have faith,” he says, tender yet serious. “In me. In us.” His fingers catch in her hair, twisting the curls. “In yourself. No matter what happens, we’ll always find each other.”

“Do you really believe that?” she whispers.

“I do.”

 

\--

 

In April the snow melts, giving way to spring. The air is still crisp, and Mary Margaret breathes it in when she opens her window, holds her breath and feels it burn. The green is returning to the trees in the square, budding with fresh life and new beginnings. The world turns on, continues in its pattern of birth from sleep.

With spring comes planting season. Winter is bad business for crop dusting, and when Mary Margaret climbs into the cockpit again, it’s like greeting an old friend.

Fuel has been rationed, of course, and victory gardens are tough competition for farm-grown food, so most farmers are too poor to afford her services. She finds herself picking up extra nights at the Rabbit Hole, along with the swing shift at David’s factory. Between work and helping to care for Ruth, she barely finds time to breathe.

But she _always_ finds time to fly.

Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to fly in the war, to chase down the axis in a fighter. She pretends sometimes, practices the maneuvers as she dusts the fields, swooping low and dodging imaginary enemies with barrel rolls. Most people tell her that the fighting is best left to the men.

David tells her she’d take Europe by storm.

On the farm, her job is done, and she takes her plane down to run to her set at the Rabbit Hole.

On her imaginary battlefield, the allies win another fight, and she’s met with the roar of a jubilant and grateful crowd.

 

\--

 

One morning in May, when the ground is damp from the night’s rainfall and the chill has left the air, Ruth asks to go outside.

It isn’t exactly compliant with her doctor’s orders, but the thought alone brings such life to her eyes - life they’d thought all but lost - that they can’t bear to say no.

So they give the nurse the afternoon off and help Ruth rise from the bed, David taking most of the weight on one side while Mary Margaret steadies her from the other. She’s refused slippers or even a coat, and instead makes her way - one trembling step and then another - outside in her nightgown and bare feet.

They’ve made a spot for her in the garden, piled high with blankets and pillows, and she sinks into them with a grateful sigh. With so little time to tend it, the garden is overgrown and wild. The flowers are in full bloom by now, and the whole place is buzzing with life. Perhaps it’s irresponsible, but it seems to do her good, bringing the color back to her cheeks and the laughter back into her breath. She reaches for David, and he kneels down beside her as her hands come to cradle his face. “Thank you, my boy,” she says, and kisses his forehead. “Thank you.”

They rarely get time off together, and never on such a beautiful day, so when Ruth drifts off in the afternoon sun, David and Mary Margaret sit beneath the apple tree sharing a pitcher of iced tea. She kicks off her shoes and lets the grass tickle her feet, and laughs as David pulls her hair aside to press icy kisses to the back of her neck.

She sees the flutter of Ruth’s eyelashes, the faint smile creasing the old woman’s face, and she feels the blood rush to her cheeks. David’s arm curls around her waist, and his lips are still cold as they move against the hollow of her throat, whispering ‘I love you’ over and over again. They sleep too then, Mary Margaret with her head on David’s chest, lulled by the warmth of the sun and the steady beat of his heart.

At sunset, they wake.

Ruth does not.

 

\--

 

Following the funeral, they retreat to David’s apartment. He can’t bear the thought of staying in the house - too full of memories of his mother, too claustrophobic with Albert’s sudden presence - and while Ruby is a dear friend, David isn’t ready for that. Neither of them are.

He lights a candle. For his mother, but not for his mother - a candle in the window to welcome James home. It’s a silly tradition, he thinks, but it’s what his mother would have wanted. She’d had him light it every evening since his brother had left, waiting faithfully for his return. He tells Mary Margaret that he doesn’t trust Albert to light it, but truthfully - selfishly - he finds himself clinging to the brother he’d once forsaken.

Mary Margaret hangs the service flag - a field of white bordered in red, a single blue star in the center. It’s a badge of honor, of sacrifice; a reminder that James is still out there, that they’re still home waiting.

He’d never taken an interest in these things before, hanging the flag and lighting the candle for his mother’s benefit, but not his own.

The organist had played Amazing Grace, and Mary Margaret had curled her fingers into his palm - a silent affirmation of her presence. Now, she sings it instead. Her voice is soft; her hands even softer as she strokes his back in slow circles. He doesn’t cry, though. He’s too numb to feel anything but exhaustion, and she sings even as he drifts into unconsciousness - her hand tightly clasping his.

 

\--

 

It takes nearly three weeks to put all of Ruth’s affairs in order. Most of the estate goes to Albert of course, but there are odds and ends to be dealt with, the house to be sold off while Albert moves with his company. In the end, they trudge back to David’s apartment, he with a modest-sized box in hand, and Mary Margaret with a sealed and suspiciously heavy envelope. The service flag greets them at the window.

It’s been nearly three weeks, and David is just lighting the candle when the telegram arrives.

 


	9. I want you (for the U.S. Army).

**I want you (for the U.S. Army).**

 

_THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR BROTHER PRIVATE JAMES NOLAN WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN DEFENSE OF HIS COUNTRY IN WESTERN EUROPE JUNE 8 1942._

 

\--

 

_Mary Margaret dreams._

 

_She dreams of air raids and bombings, of the sirens piercing the night. She stumbles through the street, half naked and feet numb, bare and splashing through icy puddles and scraping on asphalt. There are soldiers there, American soldiers and civilian volunteers, pushing her into the crowd; the crowd in turn shoves her into the shelter. It’s for her own good, they say. For her safety._

 

_She screams. She screams and there is no sound, just the sensation of a thousand knives at her throat. She can’t run. She can’t hide. She must find David, she must--_

 

_She falls._

 

_Faster and faster she falls, through the crowd and then through the earth itself. The ground swallows her up, opens into a gaping chasm of light and flame, then darkness and silence. Down she goes, down down, down; the fall never changing, never ending. Faster and faster, down down down, until she’s sprawled on the ground, her whole body aching from the impact._

 

_Everything hurts; everything’s_ heavy _\- so, so heavy - and it takes every ounce of strength to turn her head, to wipe the mud from her eyes._

 

_David._

 

_Dead._

 

_David’s there, staring at her through the glassy eyes of a corpse; staring at her and covered in blood. Staring and dead._

 

_Dead._

 

_Dead dead dead._

 

_She_ screams _._

 

\--

 

She wakes, and David’s hands are on her shoulders, warm and real and _alive_. She presses a trembling hand to his chest, feels the steady thrumming of life there and focuses on it as she catches her breath. Alive, she thinks. He’s alive. James is dead, but David is alive.

 

“Mary Margaret,” he breathes, cradling her face between his palms.

 

“You were dead,” she gasps. “I saw you. You were--”

 

“Shh,” he soothes, pressing one hand over her heart. “It was just a dream. A nightmare. I’m right here.”

 

“But--”

 

“Shh,” he coos again, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks. “You were just dreaming about--” he stops short, but she knows. She was dreaming about James, about a flag folded and pressed reverently into David’s arms. About mother and son buried side by side. “Here,” he says, pulling away to light the candle on the nightstand. “It will capture the nightmares.”

 

She watches his face in the candlelight, lined in exhaustion. He looks older now, she thinks; older and tired. No-one should have to endure two funerals in less than a month; no son should be buried before the soil has even settled on his mother’s grave.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

 

“I don’t -- I don’t know.” She doesn’t want to say the words out loud, as if to give them weight could brand them as true. And then she can’t even bear to think them, for fear that his gaze will turn glassy and lifeless in the flickering light.

 

He presses his lips to her forehead, and tugs the blanket up over her shoulder. “Okay. That’s okay.”

 

“It just seemed so -- real.”

 

“I’m right here.” He draws his thumb across her cheekbone, her lips. “You’re safe.”

 

“But--”

 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me,” he promises.

 

“You can’t know that,” she protests weakly. “What if they draft you, or you--” _Enlist._ She won’t say it, can’t. She’s avoided saying that very word for over six months, fearful of the conversation that would certainly follow. She loves him far too much to watch him leave.

 

Loves him more than enough to let him go.

 

“Even if we’re separated,” he insists fiercely. “I’ll find you again. Always. No matter how long it takes.”

 

She chokes. She trusts him - more than she trusts herself, even - but it’s a lot to promise, almost impossible. “It could be -- years.”

 

His fingers tangle in her hair, weaving through dark curls as he leans his forehead against her own. “What’s a few years when you have eternal love?”

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret turns up at the pawn shop, and Gold is far from surprised.

 

Some have said he can see the future, but truthfully that’s a load of rubbish. Despite having made himself an enigma, he is far from supernatural. He’s merely an observer. He knows people, knows the way they act, the way they respond. Mary Margaret Blanchard had been particularly easy to pin: headstrong, optimistic, good; a veritable heroine in a time of panic and war. He sees it in the set of her jaw, the way she commands the room. She’s a leader, a fighter.

 

“I’m sorry it’s late,” she says, flustered, and rushes to the counter with an envelope full of rent money.

 

“No bother, dearie,” says Gold, pressing the envelope back into her hands. “Mrs. Holloway already paid both halves.”

 

She stiffens in response; a pang of guilt perhaps. “Oh, I -- I didn’t know.”

 

“I assumed as much.” The conversation dies for a moment, and Mary Margaret twists the envelope of money between her fingers. It appears she hasn’t gotten a good night’s rest in days, perhaps even weeks. Times have been particularly hard, it seems. War does that. “I heard about Mr. Nolan’s family; it’s a real shame. All he had left, if I recall. I trust you’ll send my condolences.”  
  


“Of course.” She hesitates, weight shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry for bothering you, then.”

 

“No trouble, Miss Blanchard. Feel free to drop by anytime.” She stops, though, pausing at one of the more interesting pieces in the shop - a glittering, jeweled tiara, fit for a princess. She turns it over in her hands, watching it sparkle as it catches the sunlight. He grins. “Found something you like?”

 

She jumps, apparently lost in thought, and places the tiara back on its cushion. “No, it’s just -- it’s heavier than it looks.”

 

“Indeed,” he agrees. “It’s lovely though. Perfect for a bride. I could give you a reasonable price. It could be your ‘something old’ perhaps.”

 

The blood rushes to her cheeks as she backs away from the tiara. “No, no,” she stutters. “I’m not-- I mean _we_ aren’t--”

 

Gold has to restrain himself from laughing. “Or ‘something borrowed’ even. I trust you to return it. If not, it isn’t as if I don’t know where to find you.”

 

“That’s very … charitable of you, Mr. Gold, but--” she clears her throat, folding her arms defensively across her chest. “David and I -- we aren’t engaged, so I have no need for a -- a _tiara_. It’s not exactly my -- style”

 

“Mm,” he hums, thinking that won’t be the case for long. “In another life, perhaps.”

 

“I should -- go.” But she lingers a moment longer, fingers grazing over the edges of the tiara, before turning to leave.

 

“Miss Blanchard?” he calls out to her, just as she’s pushing open the door. “One more thing.” She turns, face red and eyes wide. Life hasn’t been easy on her, he thinks, and wonders if he’s doing the right thing. “I have the _information_ you requested from me.”

 

She makes her way across the shop once more, then leans against the counter, peering over at him. “And?”

 

He pulls the thick envelope from his breast pocket and slides it over to her; he’d been expecting her of course. “And they’d be lucky to have you, dearie.”

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret is barely a block away from the pawn shop when she bumps - quite literally - into a familiar face. She hasn’t seen Ashley since the girl’s wedding, though she supposes that’s to be expected; they’re hardly acquaintances and with Sean gone, there’s really no reason for her or David to have seen her at all.

 

That should change, she thinks as she rights herself from the collision and Ashley’s hand smoothes over the rounded swell of her belly. It seems their few weeks of married life were … _productive_.

 

“Ashley,” she greets, and tears her eyes from the blonde’s abdomen. “I haven’t seen you since--”

 

“Since the wedding, yes,” Ashely agrees, then gestures to her growing bump. “A lot has happened since then, if you hadn’t noticed.”

 

“I had,” says Mary Margaret, still stunned. “Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you,” Ashley replies. Her smile is laced with sadness, though, and Mary Margaret can only imagine why.

 

“How’s -- how’s Sean?” Mary Margaret asks carefully. Asking about loved ones has become a tricky business as of late. The town is small, and she tries her hardest to keep up to date on casualties and fatalities, but things have been hectic and sometimes things slip through the cracks. David and Sean are friends though, and surely--

 

“He’s well,” replies the younger woman, and Mary Margaret sighs in relief. “As well as he can be, at least.”

 

“That’s good. I’m assuming he’s excited for the new addition.”

 

Ashley grins. “Ecstatic. He can’t wait to come home and meet the baby. It’s as if he thinks the baby is already here!”

 

Mary Margaret laughs, and they fall into step with one another. They’re going back toward the pawn shop now, but she doesn’t mind the detour. It’ll give her time to think - or not think, which seems an even better option. “He’s just impatient.”

 

Ashley stops sooner than Mary Margaret had been expecting, coming to a halt just outside Mr. Gold’s shop. “Well, I suppose I’ll catch up with you later.”

 

Mary Margaret frowns. “What do you need with Mr. Gold?”

 

“It’s -- complicated,” Ashley admits, then sighs as she digs in her purse until she comes up with an antique gold pocket watch. “Some paperwork got messed up with the Army, and they’re behind on Sean’s paycheck. It’ll come through eventually but … I’ve got bills to pay and I can’t get a war job until after the baby. This was my father’s. Hopefully Mr. Gold will be able to give me enough for it. The darn thing’s been stuck on midnight for as long as I’ve been alive, but the gold itself should be valuable enough.”

 

Mary Margaret thinks of her mother’s pearls, and how she’s almost pawned them to Mr. Gold for the very same reason a handful of times in the past. “I’m sure it will be enough,” she says, though she isn’t sure it’s the right thing to say, or what Ashley wants to hear at all. “Ashley -- I know we don’t know each other well, but if there’s anything I can do--”

 

“I’m fine, Mary Margaret,” she insists.

 

“Even so. If you ever need anything--”

 

“I know where to find you,” Ashley assures her, and leans against the door leading to Gold’s shop. “It was nice seeing you again.”

 

“It was nice seeing you too,” Mary Margaret replies, and barely gets out a ‘congratulations’ before the blonde disappears inside.

 

\--

 

The war effort is everything.

 

People need food, soldier and civilian alike. This fact is made particularly clear as ration books are distributed, while further rationing is discussed in Washington. They need food, so they help out the best they can - Mary Margaret working on her meager fuel rations, David volunteering his own experience on a farm.

 

The army needs bombs. But more than that - they need weapons, tanks and uniforms. They need everything the civilian workforce has to offer. The local sewing machine factory has been converted to manufacture airplanes. The work is hard, and the pay modest, but it needs to be done, so they each take a shift working the line, riveting and welding the machines of war.

 

Above all, people need hope.

 

Mary Margaret had said as much once, nibbling on her stale sandwich as they shared lunch on a park bench. A group of soldiers had passed by - out on weekend passes - and the crowds had flocked to them, men and women alike. Some had enjoyed the attention, while others had stood awkwardly by as the passers-by fawned over them.

 

“ _I wouldn’t like the attention,”_ he’d said off-handedly, as if convincing himself the job wasn’t for him.

 

“ _It’s not about the attention,”_ Mary Margaret had hummed, then tossed a crumb to a nearby squirrel. _“It’s about hope. That’s what the people need most of all.”_

 

Hope, he thinks, is all he has left to give.

 

“Well, Mr. Nolan,” the doctor says, eyeing his clipboard, “it seems you’re in excellent health.”

 

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. ‘Sir’ is something he’ll be saying often, he’s sure.

 

The doctor casts around for a stamp, then leaves a brand of red ink on his file. It reads ‘1-A’. “Perfectly fit to serve.”

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath.

 

Then another.

 

And another.

 

This isn’t going to be an easy conversation, she thinks. She isn’t quite sure what to expect - yelling has never been exactly David’s style, but he isn’t a pushover, and he _will_ have an opinion. He’ll be supportive, yes, but it may very well be at the expense of his own sanity.

 

It wouldn’t be their first fight, but she hopes it won’t be their last.

 

(She tells herself over and over again that this is for him, too. Someone had to end this impasse; someone had to be the first.)

 

She knocks.

 

_Shit_. She never knocks.

 

David frowns at first upon answering the door, then leans forward and kisses her - more carefully than usual.

 

“You never knock.”

 

“I-- I just thought you might--” she stutters. “Nevermind. Can I come in?”

 

He lets her slip through and latches the door behind her. The small apartment is suddenly smaller than normal, making her feel claustrophobic as she perches on the edge of the bed. She’s been here before, of course - spent the night countless times, whether to avoid making Ruby uncomfortable or simply for convenience - and yet it’s suddenly foreign to her. Maybe she’s distancing herself, she reasons. Just in case.

 

She sees it then, though - the service flag in the window, the star now outlined in gold. She’d done the embroidery herself, memorializing James with every stitch. She hadn’t liked him, but David remembers him fondly, and she can’t deny that it was James who’d brought David into her life.

 

She can’t deny that he died a hero.

 

“I was actually about to leave for your apartment. There’s something-- Mary Margaret?”

 

She blinks and shakes herself from her thoughts, focusing on David. “Mm?”

 

He takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment before taking her hand and kneeling in front of her. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

 

She swallows hard. No, not now. Not before she can tell him. “David--”

 

“I enlisted.”

 

_Enlisted_.

 

She chokes.

 

Then laughs.

 

David frowns. “Mary Margaret?”

 

She laughs, laughs until her eyes are brimming with tears and David’s face is lined with concern. “Enlisted? You enlisted.”

 

“I-- yes,” he says, blinking. “But -- I can explain-- wait, you’re not -- you’re not angry?”

 

She chuckles softly, wiping at her tears with the edge of her sleeve. “David, I knew.”

 

“You -- knew?”

 

“You’ve been hinting at it for weeks. It was only a matter of time,” she explains, and her laughter dies. “Ever since--” _Since your mother died._ “You aren’t exactly subtle.”

 

He frowns. “I’ve been told my tact leaves something to be desired.”

 

“It does,” she agrees, and squeezes his hand. “But I’m not really much better. We -- we really are quite the pair.” She hesitates, the courage she’d gathered before suddenly absent; her determination faltering as she looks into David’s eyes and sees at once everything she might lose - their life, their future together. Each other.

 

“Mary Margaret?” The crease in his brow deepens. “What is it?”

 

“Promise you won’t get mad?”

 

“That always means good news,” he sighs, then meets her eyes seriously when she casts him a warning glance. “Promise.”

 

“I --” she begins, then bites her lip briefly. This is harder than she’d thought it would be. “I _might_ have enlisted too.”

 

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even take a second to think it over before releasing her hand and rising to his feet. “You did _what_? Are you out of your mind?”  
  


It isn’t their first fight - not by far - but it _is_ the first time he’s raised his voice toward her. She doesn’t even flinch. “You promised not to get mad,” she reminds him, firm yet calm.

 

“I’m not--” he begins, then seems to realize that he’s only been increasing in volume and lowers his voice, pressing his fingertips together in a gesture of carefully balanced control. “I’m not mad.”

 

She snorts. “I can see that.”

 

“I’m not,” he repeats, then moves to sit beside her on the bed, fingers tangling with hers. “I just-- you _enlisted_? In the Navy?”

 

“Oh god no,” she replies with a little breath of laughter.

 

“But the Army doesn’t--”

 

She interrupts him, finishing his thought. “Doesn’t take women? They didn’t. Now they do. They’re starting this auxiliary corps for women. I’ll be one of the first. It’s -- mostly paperwork, I think. But it’s important.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, to the point she begins to wonder if this is just new anger brewing beneath the surface. But instead, he smiles. “Well, at least we were both stupid enough to join the same branch.”

 

It’s his blessing. She doesn’t need his permission to do anything (as she made so blatantly clear by signing her life away without even consulting him), but she does yearn for his approval. He isn’t her whole life. No, of course he isn’t; there had been mornings and nights, glee and sorrow before he came tumbling into her world. But somehow she knows that there would be less laughter, more tears without him by her side. The world would move on, but it would do so dragging her behind. Life would happen, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not anymore. It’s her life to do with what she will, but she’s filled with overwhelming relief when there’s a smile and the beginning of laughter playing on his lips.

 

“At the same time,” she adds with a grin, and then she’s laughing too, pushing aside all thoughts of how she might still lose him - how very _real_ that possibility is now - and leaning up to kiss him.

 

His lips are still pressed to hers, still laced with mirth when he breathes, “What are we doing?”

 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I -- honestly, I didn’t really have a plan past this.”

 

He chuckles, leaning his forehead against hers. “Honestly? Neither did I.”

 

They’re really quite a pair, she thinks. Only they would manage to run off and join the Army without telling anyone, and then be _laughing_ about it while other couples would be clinging to one another, falling over each other in tears. She thinks of Ruby, inconsolable Ruby who had sobbed uncontrollably as David had rubbed her back and Mary Margaret had wiped the tears from her eyes. She thinks of Ashley, barely a wife and now a mother-to-be, pawning off her father’s pocketwatch in preparation for her child’s arrival. She thinks of all the wives, the girlfriends and fiancées, the husbands and boyfriends across the country clinging to one another in fear and heartache.

 

And then she thinks of _them_ \- Mary Margaret and David, laughing and kissing and tugging open buttons because they are so far past hopelessness, so far beyond heartache. There is nothing left to grieve, not after all that has happened. There is no room for sadness anymore; not even standing in the face of the unknown, at the doorway of unbearable loss, is there room for anything more than the feeling of skin on skin, of the reassurance that right now - in this moment - they’re _together_. It’s all that matters.

 

She’s naked when he presses her into the mattress, their clothing in a heap beside the bed. Their laughter has since died, and when he rises over her and she leans up to kiss him, there’s a pull of desperation there. It tugs at her heart and she draws him down into her, fingers curling against his hips.

 

“Snow,” he gasps, and her heart aches at the use of that name. It had once been a game of make believe, long ago in the hidden corners of childhood. And for Charming - for David - it had been a game as well, pretending the world was a fairytale since the moment they walked into each other’s lives.

 

Life isn’t a fairytale. Life is war and death and loss and barely scraping by.

 

But she’d like to pretend, so she rises in response, arching into him as she breathes, “Charming.”

 

Outside, the sun is setting. The light filters in through the curtains - a mixture of red and gold that illuminates David’s face. She sees love there, feels it as she draws her thumb across his lips and is met with an eager kiss in return. It’s a perfect moment, and she memorizes it - the sheen of sweat on him as she strokes her hand over his back, the steady pulse and build of desire within her as he moves, the way he shudders and his gaze catches hers as he falls apart in her arms and she falls apart in his as well.

 

He’s still hovering over her, struggling to catch his breath when she finally says it. Her hand is pressed over his heart, and she feels it calm, pounding steadily against her fingertips. “I’m going to miss you,” she says, hardly more than a whisper. It’s what they’ve both been thinking; what they’ve both been too afraid to commit to words.

 

He swallows thickly, bends to rest his forehead against hers. “Will you wait for me?”

 

It’s a non-question, though. He knows the answer; knows just as well as she knows that he will always find her. But she answers regardless, leaning up to brush her lips against his. “Forever if I have to.”

 

\--

 

_She dreams of darkness. It’s thick and tangible, and it burns her eyes and lungs. For a moment, she thinks she’s underwater, swimming in an ocean of black with no hope of ever surfacing, but then she catches sight of it - fire. It’s a torch, heavy enough that she’s forced to hold it in two hands at first. She hoists it out in front of herself, and the light illuminates a patch of solid ground beneath her._

 

_She moves, and where the light touches, reality follows. It isn’t much - still all darkness and shadow - but it’s firm beneath her feet and eventually she spots light ahead._

 

_A reflection._

 

_It’s a mirror, reflecting her own torch back at her. And as she turns she’s met with another mirror, and then another and another, until she’s surrounded on all sides. Trapped. She can’t remember which way she’d came, or in which direction she was going; each direction just reveals fractals upon fractals of her own reflection, reflections of reflections spiraling into infinity._

 

_And then the images morph, forming haunting images of her childhood - a life long forgotten - images of a future she can’t begin to comprehend._

 

_She douses the flame in the fluid black, snuffs the light and falls into the embrace of darkness once more._

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret wakes to David’s lips against hers, soft and featherlight as the world comes into focus around her.

 

“Good morning,” he whispers, then kisses her again, his hand warm against her cheek.

 

She sits up groggily, blinking into the morning light. He’s perched on the edge of the bed beside her, dressed and ready for the day while she’s still half-naked - his shirt from yesterday half-buttoned and draped over her smaller frame. “Good morning.”

 

“How did you sleep?”

 

She thinks of liquid darkness, of drowning in regret and worry. They haven’t even discussed logistics - where or when they’re going, where or when they’ll see one another - and all seems so daunting, so impossible to comprehend. There are a million questions to ask and a million more to be answered and she doesn’t even know where to begin. These are the thoughts that have plagued her dreams, the images and worries she’d doused in darkness again and again throughout the night.

 

“I slept,” she replies, because it’s the most honest answer she has to give.

 

He seems to know though, and he presses his lips to her temple as her eyes flicker to the candle and matches on the nightstand.

 

“I was thinking about last night,” he says, and she feels something in her stomach tighten.

 

“And?”

 

“And,” he begins, then clears his throat. “Mary Margaret. This -- this isn’t going to be easy.”

 

“I know,” she says, trying to remain calm despite the hammering of her heart. “But we’ll -- we’ll find a way. We’ve made it through so much already. After everything -- we’ll find a way.”

 

He nods, then smiles, pulling something from his pocket as his eyes meet hers. She remembers it - his mother’s ring. Once, what seems like forever and a day ago, he’d told her that she’d given it to him for luck. Mary Margaret had worn it then, had sworn it wasn’t really her style, but that someday it might be.

 

Now, she thinks it had been her style all along.

 

“Your mother’s ring,” she says, and it’s hardly more than a whisper.

 

“You remember.”

 

“How could I forget?”

 

“She once told me,” he pauses, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “She once told me that true love follows this ring. She gave it to me for luck, and while I’m grateful for any luck it’s given me, I’m certain that _us_ \- what we have - has nothing to do with superstition.”

 

His hands are shaking. This is _it_. “David--”

 

“I’d almost asked you once before. I know you know that. And now -- after everything we’ve been through -- it’s almost a formality but--”

 

He shifts, moving to kneel in front of her. The ring fits perfectly still, sliding onto her finger as if it had been meant to be there all along.

 

“Snow. Mary Margaret. I may be gone for a -- for a _very_ long time, but when I come home--” He takes a deep breath, and his eyes meet hers. “Will you marry me?”

 

She’d always heard that this is one question you should always know the answer to; there should be no thinking, no consideration. Now, she knows that statement to be true, and she doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

 

His face falls. “You -- no?”

 

“No, I won’t marry you when you come home.” She smiles, then blinks back tears. “But I _will_ marry you _today_.”

 


	10. United we are strong

**United we are strong.**

 

_My sweet Snow,_

_I love you. I hope you remember that, as I’m sure it’s been years now since I told you. I’m sorry I left you so soon, and I only hope you’ve been as happy as I was as your mother. If you’re reading this, it’s because you’re to become a wife. Congratulations, my girl! I wish I was there to share with you words of wisdom, and watch you walk down the aisle, but we both know that was never meant to be. Instead, I’ll leave you with this: love; love and be loved; be good and do good; and most of all, never lose hope. Together, true love and hope are the most powerful magic of all._

 

_With all my love,_

_Mama_

 

\--

 

It’s barely seven in the morning on a Saturday when the doorbell rings, and Pongo leaps off the bed and makes a beeline for the front door.

 

“Okay, boy,” Archie groans. He rolls out of bed, donning a pair of house slippers and pulling on an old bathrobe. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”  
  


Pongo barks again, and when Archie rounds the corner, he sees the Dalmatian is bouncing excitedly, tail wagging from side to side. Probably Marco, he thinks faintly as he adjusts his glasses. He'd always been an early bird; far too early for Archie's taste.

 

But when he opens the door, instead of Marco he finds young David Nolan, smiling sheepishly with a pretty brunette on his arm. “David.” He blinks, then yawns. “What-- is something wrong?”

 

Pongo pushes past him and prances out to meet the visitors. The girl drops to her knees to ruffle his ears, and he pushes his head into David’s palm.

 

David clears his throat. “Sorry to wake you, but -- we need your help.”

 

Archie frowns. “ _My_ help?”

 

David smiles warmly, sharing a look with the brunette at his side. “Do you have time today to perform a wedding?”

 

\--

 

At one point in time, Mary Margaret had given up all thoughts of marriage. True love was the stuff of fairytales, after all, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less. But things change. And maybe ‘marriage’ won’t be what it’s meant to be - maybe it will be a moment of heartfelt vows and a few weeks of unrepentant bliss before an eternity of heartache - but it’s hers now.

 

Ruby about screams when she hears the news. “About time! When’s the big day?”

 

Mary Margaret bites her lip. “Today.”

 

“Wait,” Ruby frowns. “What?”

 

“We’re getting married today,” Mary Margaret repeats. “In … about six hours. And we need a witness.”

 

Ruby blinks, then shakes herself. “Today?”

 

“Yeah.” Mary Margaret bites her lip again. “We also … kind of enlisted.”

 

Ruby’s eyes widen, her mouth agape. “Enlisted?”

 

“Yes. Both of us.”

 

“Both of you,” Ruby repeats, and follows Mary Margaret into her bedroom. “I shouldn’t really be surprised.”

 

Mary Margaret flings the doors to her wardrobe open wide, then glances back at Ruby over her shoulder. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“That you’re -- you,” Ruby shrugs. “What are you looking for?”

 

“My mother’s dress.” It isn’t difficult to find. After all, over half her clothes have migrated to David’s apartment in the past months. The garment bag is tucked in the back corner, and she pulls it free to lay it reverently on her bed. “I know it won’t be in a church, but--”

 

“No buts,” Ruby cuts in. “You should wear it.”

 

It isn’t a typical wedding dress. Granted, she’s following in her parents’ footsteps to an extent - they’d eloped, with only two close friends as witness. The neckline is low, a remnant of her mother’s era, and as she pulls the garment free of its wrappings, the ivory chiffon flutters against her fingertips.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Ruby comments softly.

 

“It’s all I have left of her, really.” Mary Margaret worries her lower lip between her teeth, holding the dress up to see how it’ll fit. “This and her pearls.”

 

“It’s perfect.”

 

Mary Margaret twirls around herself, still holding the dress to her body. She smiles at the way the fabric catches in the air, until she feels something solid land at her feet - an envelope, addressed in her mother’s flowing hand. _My darling Snow._

 

\--

 

“Mr. Collodi?” David pushes through the doors to the garage, mind focused on the mission set before him - witnesses. “Mr. Collodi? Are you here?”

 

“He’s taking the day off.” David turns to find Leonard stepping out from behind a Chevy pickup, wiping his hands on his coveralls. It shouldn’t surprise him really - his friend has taken up the slack resulting from Sean’s enlistment. He works double shifts at the garage, pulling more than his fair share of the weight. “What sort of crisis have you gotten yourself into this time?”

 

David bites back a swell of laughter, already anticipating Leonard’s reaction. “I’m getting married. Today.”

 

“Ooh,” Leonard winces, though the corners of his mouth begin to wrinkle into a smile. “That’s a tough one. Don’t think even the boss can dig you out of this.”

 

“I need a witness,” David explains, leaning his elbows against the hood of the truck. “I was hoping to find Marco but you’ll do.” He grins. “If you’re up to it, that is.”

 

Leonard mirrors him, leaning against the truck as well. His misgivings about relationships are far from secret, but he’s never been anything but a supportive - if a bit protective - friend. “You’re sure about this?”

 

David thinks of his life before Mary Margaret, and comes up empty; as if his life hadn’t even begun until she’d fallen into his lap. “I’m sure.”

 

“Then it would be my honor.”

 

\--

 

They meet just before sunset, when the blinding summer day is giving way to the cool comfort of nightfall. There are five of them in all (six if Pongo is to be included), gathered together on a small footbridge in the park between Granny’s and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

 

David remembers that night - an eternity ago it seems - when they’d taken the scenic route, walking arm-in-arm through this very park. It was here, in the shadow of this bridge - when he’d teased her, and in turn she’d scowled and punched him in the arm - that he’d fallen in love with her. And now, with the summer sunset casting strands of orange and gold across her face, he falls in love with her anew.

 

“I do.”

 

His mind snaps back to the present, to the brightness of Mary Margaret’s smile, the warmth of her hands in his.

 

“And do you, David, take Mary Margaret to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

 

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even blink. “I do.”

 

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Archie smiles and closes his bible. “You may now--”

 

David, however, does not give him the opportunity to finish; instead, he pulls Mary Margaret - his _wife_ \- into his arms and kisses her, his fingers caught up in her hair. It’s a bit possessive, but after all, she's _his_ now, and it isn’t so much a matter of control as it is completeness. No matter what the future may hold, she is a part of him for all eternity. He sighs into her, and even as their lips part he leans in for another kiss. Maybe it is too much, he thinks, but then he feels the same longing rising within her - feels it in the breathlessness of her kiss, in the desperate hold of her hands on his jacket.

 

He’s vaguely aware of Ruby scattering colorful flowers around them, of Archie’s applause and Leonard’s hoots of encouragement, but all he sees is Mary Margaret.

 

Leonard pops open a bottle of champagne, stepping aside as it bubbles over and splatters on the ground at their feet where Pongo laps it up eagerly. “When I was a boy,” he says, carefully pouring the liquid into a single cup, “my mother would read to me the story of King Arthur’s court and the legend of a cup with the power to grant eternal life.” He places the cup in David’s palm before handing the bottle off to Archie and Ruby to pour their own glasses. “We may not live in a world where life is everlasting, but I think we can all agree that the love between you will always be strong, true and eternal.”

 

David takes one slow sip, and then passes the cup to Mary Margaret to do the same.

 

He can’t help but kiss her, tasting the sweetness on her lips.

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret doesn’t know when the small apartment had become her home (not after living with Ruby for so long), but there’s no denying it when David scoops her up in his arms and carries her over the threshold and inside. Home is an abstract concept, and in this moment she revises her previous thought; it isn’t the apartment itself that has become home - not these four dusty walls, this rickety bed or threadbare quilt - it’s David. _David_ \- her best friend, her partner, and now her husband. He is home to her - his embrace her walls, his warmth her hearth. He is everything.

 

And he’s _hers._

 

He presses her into the mattress, and she relishes the way it creaks, admires the contrast between the fine chiffon of her dress and the tattered edges of the quilt; there’s beauty in the contradiction, just as there’s beauty in his fingers tangled in her hair, in his mouth warm against hers.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, fingertips seeking bare skin.

 

“I’m yours,” she replies, and feels a rush of excitement at that. She tugs at his tie, at once loosening it and using it to pull him down to her for another kiss. “And you’re mine,” she adds possessively.

 

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, bending down for another kiss as she pulls off his tie and jacket, then works her way down the buttons of his shirt. “I’ve been yours,” he murmurs, his lips still brushing hers, “since the moment I first met you.”

 

She easily pulls the last button free and pushes the shirt off his shoulders. “When I punched you, you mean?” she teases, though she can’t help but to ghost her thumb over the scar on his chin. “And then you _insisted_ on buying me a drink for my troubles.”

 

“It seemed like the honorable thing to do.” And then he’s still for a moment, fingers caught up in her hair.

 

She’s still too, half propped against the pillows with him hovering over her. It’s become such a familiar sensation over the past several months - his breath on hers, the warmth of his body against her - and yet it’s different now. She feels a shift between them - just as she’d felt the shift from dalliance to lover. She can’t quite articulate it, because they’ve always been partners - equals - but it’s more defined now, more concrete. Then, they’d take turns taking the lead, guiding the other along; now, it’s as if they move as one. There is no need for words, their means of communication hardly more than a shared glance, the brush of a hand. She moves _with_ him, not in response to him - arching into him even before he moves to unfasten her dress - and he does the same - ducking for her to pull his undershirt over his head. It’s a dance; a choreographed masterpiece to which only they know the steps.

 

And then his mouth is on her - her neck, her breasts, her stomach - with sweet kisses, soft kisses and open-mouthed kisses that pull at her heart. “I love you,” he whispers, then brands her skin with her name - her _secret_ name - over and over again, “I love you, Snow.” She feels him more than hears him, the words lost somewhere between body and breath; between shadow and soul.

 

The rest of their clothing is discarded on the floor when he finally moves over her, his skin warm and smooth against her own. She wonders if this is the hundredth time, or perhaps the thousandth; how many times has she felt his mouth between her thighs, how many times has she memorized the curve of his spine beneath her fingertips; how many times have passed and how many times are there to come. It could be a million, she thinks with a gasp - feeling the dizzying sensation of him pushing into her - and she’d never tire of it. A million stolen moments, a hundred million kisses would never be enough.

 

She moves her hips to meet his, in long, languid strokes that build tension at the base of her spine, then at a more frantic pace that makes her head spin and she clings to him for stability, her nails scraping down the smooth plane of his back. “Charming,” she whispers, her breath ragged as she’s on the edge of release, and then she’s falling apart as he falls apart inside her - a million pieces falling and flying, caught in the tumultuous endlessness of the world.

 

\--

 

_She dreams of fire._

 

_Fire and heat, alight on her skin and caught in her hair. There is no escape from this fiery room; no end to the flames that consume her, to the fire inside of her._

 

_There is no end; just fire and pain and--_

 

\--

 

Mary Margaret wakes with a gasp, David’s hand cool and reassuring against her cheek.

 

“Another nightmare?”

 

She nods mutely, still caught in the whirlwind of her dreams.

 

He doesn’t ask anything more, merely reaches over to light the candle on the nightstand before curling back around her, his presence pulling her from the fiery room.

 

She finds her voice again, murmuring against his chest, “Thank you.”

 

“Anything for my wife,” he replies, and she feels a certain thrill of excitement at that.

 

“Wife,” she repeats, tasting the word on her tongue. “I like the way that sounds.”

 

\--

 

Packing up David’s tiny apartment is almost symbolic, he thinks; a new home for a new life, though he isn’t sure to which transition this applies. Just as he moves from life as a bachelor to that as a married man, he changes from civilian to soldier.

 

They’ve had a few weeks, but they’ve put off packing again and again and again. It’s a precursor to indefinite separation, after all, and they’ve done their best to push past thoughts of war and the uncertain future, insistent that the world not consume their brief chance at celebrating life as newlyweds.

 

Mary Margaret’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to find her holding the service flag and candle from the window. “What about these?”

 

“What about them?”

 

“I was wondering if I should take them, or leave them with Ruby.” She pauses to trail her fingers over the embroidery on the flag. “It’ll need a new star though,” she adds absently.

 

He covers her hands with his own, the flag and candle crushed between them. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I want whatever you want.”

 

She considers that for a moment before moving the keepsakes to a box set to go with Ruby. They can’t take much with them. He’s limited to what he can carry on his back. While Mary Margaret may have more freedom, he can tell there’s a finality to her decisions. They’re leaving a life behind - _their_ life - and embarking on a new adventure.

 

She sniffles softly, and he turns to find her fighting back tears. “Snow,” he soothes, rubbing her arm. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I don’t want to do this,” she chokes out. “I don’t want to leave you.”

 

It breaks him to see her so broken; only weeks after promising to ensure her happiness for all eternity. But there’s nothing more he can do, other than pull her into his arms and whisper, “I know.”

 

\--

 

“You’re packing?”

 

Ruby turns, stuffing a dress into her suitcase. “Just for the night.”

 

Mary Margaret frowns and leans against the doorjamb. “But we leave tomorrow.”

 

Ruby gives her a pointed stare. “Exactly.”

 

Mary Margaret feels a twinge of guilt at that, thinking of all the time she’s missed with her friend in these past months, the time that she’s going to miss until the war ends. But beyond that, nothing is going to be the same again. She’d had the same thought the night of Ruby’s wedding, and while she’d been a little too _occupied_ to consider it on her own wedding night, the thought plagues her now. “Ruby,” she sighs. “Please, you don’t have to leave.” Ruby looks unconvinced and Mary Margaret adds, “After tomorrow, this will be _your_ apartment. I don’t want to -- kick you out.”

 

“You aren’t,” Ruby replies, and pulls the buckles closed on her suitcase. “But I -- I know what this is like.”

 

Of course. Peter.

 

“Ruby--”

 

“Now, come on,” she says, pushing past Mary Margaret and into the kitchen, where she pulls down their mugs - a red one and a white one. She looks sad, as if she’s fighting back tears but she smiles in spite of it. “We’ve got about two hours until your husband gets here, and I didn’t ‘borrow’ a bottle of schnapps from work for nothing.”

 

\--

 

It’s their last night.

 

She tries to push that thought to the back of her mind - tries to remind herself that it won’t change anything to acknowledge it - but she can’t help but think that every kiss, every caress, every low moan reverberating from David’s chest is the last. At least for now.

 

It could be months, maybe even years until they see one another again (if that, some timid voice in the farthest reaches of her consciousness dares to point out), and despite all attempts to make this special, to make it _matter_ , it isn’t enough. Nothing is enough; not music or candlelight, not silk or lace. Nothing.

 

There is nothing; only them.

 

She leans her forehead against his, rocking against him. His fingers curl into her hair, then into the skin on her hips, and she breathes his name, “ _Charming,_ ” again and again until she’s standing on that dizzy edge, and then falling over with him - unafraid, at least for the moment.

 

No, she tells herself. This isn’t their last night. Not forever, anyway.

 

Just for now.

 

\--

 

David wakes early, feeling the gravity of the day to come weighing on him. There are checklists, pages of items he’s meant to bring, that Mary Margaret is meant to bring, and they run through his mind, even if they’d double- and triple-checked them the night before, packing the items away into one neat suitcase and one over-stuffed duffel. For all intents and purposes, they’re ready.

 

Yes, technically speaking they’re ready to go.

 

But, he thinks, he’ll never _truly_ be ready.

 

Mary Margaret is still asleep, tucked close against his side while the sunrise lights her face in shades of orange and gold. He remembers the first night he woke next to her, how they’d been in this very bed, how the sunlight had played on her hair; how he’d wished to wake next to her every day for the rest of his life.

 

He isn’t ready to leave her.

 

“David,” she murmurs when she finally wakes.

 

He smiles faintly, pulling her hair from her eyes. “I love you,” he says in lieu of ‘good morning’.

 

There are tears in her eyes as she replies, “I love you too.”

 

\--

 

David’s train leaves first. She’s secretly grateful for this, reasoning that it will be easier knowing that she had every possible moment with him, that she could see him off, standing on the platform with everyone else. (Though she tries not to think of the _after_ , of the hour spent alone waiting for her own train to leave.)

 

But for now, he’s still here, his arm warm and real beneath her hand.

 

“This is it,” he says, taking a long look at the rest of the crowd - at the tearful goodbyes, the handful of heartfelt reunions. She sees the conductor do the same - weary from watching too many farewells, too few homecomings - before he makes last call.

 

Mary Margaret is quiet, but her grip on his arm tightens and she blinks back tears.

 

David swallows hard. “I’ve -- I’ve got to go.”

 

“I know,” she says, willing her voice not to break.

 

“I’ll write to you as soon as I can,” he promises, then chokes back a small sob of laughter. “And I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about you.”

 

She can’t help but smile at that, and busies herself straightening his tie. “Wherever they send you -- please, be careful.”

 

“I promise.”

 

He pulls her close, and she does what she can to memorize him - the way his head rests so easily on her own, the weight of his hands on her waist, his scent. In her mind, she stretches the moment into infinity, intent on staying lost here forever.

 

“Goodbye, Snow,” he whispers against her hair.

 

She holds him tighter, unwilling to let him go. “Goodbye, Charming.”

 

He kisses her, slowly and thoroughly, before pulling away. She holds on as long as she can, his fingers slipping from hers like waves against the sand.

 

There’s an emptiness, a certain hopelessness in his absence that pervades her body - takes root in all the nooks and crannies David had called home, past all the walls he’d torn down. But there’s a kind of acceptance too, a calm yielding to the way things are. There’s nothing more she can do, after all, nothing more than contribute to the war effort in her own way, to hope and pray for his safe return.

 

“Snow!”

 

She turns, and there - three cars down - David is leaning out the window, calling to her.

 

She doesn’t hesitate, throwing her suitcase aside and running as fast as she can toward him, even as the train’s whistle begins to blow. She leaps onto the running board and flings her arms around him, holding on as tightly as she can.

 

There are tears on his face as he kisses her, then pulls away to stroke a tear from her cheek. “I love you,” he says, then says it again - somewhere between laughter and a sob. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” she murmurs, and wipes clumsily at his face as well. “Oh, I love you.”

 

The whistle blows again, and David yells over it. “When this is all over, I promise--”

 

“You’ll find me,” she says.

 

She’s vaguely aware of the station manager yelling for her to get down, of the whistle blowing one last time, but all she knows is the taste of David’s mouth on hers, and the sound of his final promise.

 

“Always.”


	11. Keep 'em flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, everyone. I promise, I could never forget about this story, but this chapter was just particularly difficult to write. I hope you're still hanging in there with me, and that you'll stick around for the next chapter too. (We're only about a third of the way through!)
> 
> For the record, this chapter is probably the least historically accurate of any in this story. While I try to do my research and keep things as close as I can, sometimes I have to ask you guys to take a little leap of faith with me.
> 
> This particular chapter is dedicated to my lovely, lovely beta, Angie, for her birthday. :)

 

* * *

**Keep 'em flying.**

_Charming,_

_It's hardly been a month, and I'm still not used to your absence. Just last night, I woke and panicked when you weren't in bed beside me. It'll take time, I suppose. It's kind of funny, isn't it? That a year ago, we didn't know each other, and now I can't remember a time without you. I hope you're doing well; your last eight letters arrived all at once, so I can only assume you've been in the field for training. I hope this letter finds you soon, though, because I have great news: I've gotten my official assignment! I leave for Fort Dix in three days. That's right! I'll be stationed right beside you, at least until your training is over. I know I may not even be able to see you, but we can hope, can't we? After all, stolen moments are better than none at all._

_Love always, your wife (I still love saying it!)_

_Snow_

_September 1, 1942_.

\--

"And he's still just an ensign, but I imagine he'll move up soon. He's really smart, and he's a great officer. Everyone loves him and-"

Mary Margaret reels, listening to her new roommate babble on and on about the love of her life. Unsurprisingly, the Army hadn't exactly been accommodating when it came to lodging. Girls at other bases were able to settle into barracks that had been vacated when the boys left for war, but here at a training post, there were no vacancies to be had. She'd been lucky enough to find an auxiliary Navy nurse looking for some help with the rent.

"Hold up a second," she interjects, laughing a little. "This - Eric. How long have you two been together again?"

"Well …" Ariel begins, then pauses to bite her lip, rocking back in her wheelchair. "We aren't exactly … _attached_."

"Oh," Mary Margaret frowns. "That's understandable, I suppose. I refused to admit there was anything going on between me and my husband until …" she trails off, realizing how laughably stubborn she'd been. "Well, that isn't important. What is important is the way you feel around each other."

Ariel lights up at that. "Oh, it's - indescribable," she beams, and rolls over to fetch the kettle just as it begins to whistle, preparing two cups of chamomile tea.

"So when do I get to meet this amazing man?"

Ariel pulls a face. "Well, here's the thing: he doesn't - exactly know who I am."

"Oh." Mary Margaret's eyes widen. "So you're … _stalking_ him," she says delicately.

"It isn't creepy!" Ariel insists quickly, stirring in sugar a little more forcefully than necessary. "Okay, here's the thing: he got knocked out boxing one day and I treated him. When he first came to, he wouldn't stop flirting with me. It's just - he doesn't remember. But the moment I saw him, I just - _knew_."

"Love at first sight," Mary Margaret murmurs with a smile and accepts the cup of tea.

Ariel sighs. "It's stupid, I know."

"No, it isn't," Mary Margaret assures her, smiling at the memory of how she'd been swept off her feet mere hours after punching David in the face. "Trust me, it isn't stupid at all."

\--

Military life is nothing like Mary Margaret expected.

For one - it isn't exactly military life at all.

It had been clear from day one of training that they were not actually soldiers. They were the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps, an emphasis on 'auxiliary'. They were trained to handle paperwork, not weapons; WAAC being just a fancy acronym for 'secretary'. Of course, this doesn't surprise her entirely, but she'd been hopeful that there would be a job just right for her - a perfect fit.

Maybe she should have joined the Navy after all, because the most important thing she's done in nearly two months is bring a captain his coffee. _"Two sugars, no cream. Thanks, sweetheart."_

And worst of all, she's been at the same installation as her husband for two months and she _still_ hasn't seen him.

"I saw him again today," Ariel says, interrupting her thoughts.

Mary Margaret shakes herself. "Hm?"

"Eric," Ariel replies, not showing any indication of noticing her friend's melancholy. "He was walking across the street."

Mary Margaret shifts to sit up in bed. "Did you say hi to him?"

Ariel turns in the middle of unpinning her hair. "What?"

"Did you say hi to him?" Ariel just stares at her, blinking. "Or wave? Anything?"

"Well, no …" Ariel frowns. "I'm not even sure he _saw_ me."

"I'm sure he didn't if you were _hiding_ from him again," Mary Margaret teases. "I don't know what you're so afraid of. From what you've told me, he was rather taken with you when he was injured." There's silence as Ariel works a splintered comb through her hair, tugging as it catches on a snarl. "He isn't going to care about your legs," Mary Margaret adds gently, the first time she's voiced what's remained unsaid and understood for so long. She's never been bothered by the debilitating remnants of Ariel's childhood polio, and it's frustrating to think her reaction might not be the norm. "And if he does, then you deserve better anyway."

Ariel pauses, throwing a nervous glance to her friend. "So what do you suggest I do?"

Mary Margaret grins. "Do you trust me?"

\--

"You do realize I can't dance, right?"

Mary Margaret laughs. "For one thing, there are many ways to dance, and for another-" she pauses, helping to maneuver Ariel's chair into the club, "-we aren't here to dance."

"Then what are we-?" Ariel drops off mid-sentence, her gaze falling on the dark-haired man across the dance hall, tucked into a booth as he nurses a drink. "Oh."

"That's him, right?" Mary Margaret grins. "Talk to him."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can," Mary Margaret insists, then circles Ariel, meeting her eyes. "Isn't it better to take a chance on love than to spend your life pining for him without knowing it would have never even worked in the first place?"

Ariel lets out an exasperated sigh. "Mary Margaret-"

"Don't _Mary Margaret_ me. Go meet your man. I'll be waiting if you need an escape route."

In the end, it seems Ariel won't be needing an escape route after all.

She's tucked in the back corner of the club with Eric at her side, he nursing a drink while she turns a fork over in her fingers, smiling up at him with all the hope and promise that young love has to offer. Mary Margaret knows that look well, after all; having spent the past the past year of her life caught up in her own whirlwind romance.

It's just on hold, she tells herself as she twists her wedding ring around her finger. Just a short pause in the eternity that they've promised to one another.

But oh, how she misses him. It's only been three months and she misses him more than she can bear; three months of separation out of what will likely be years without one another. And to think, he's mere miles from her and yet so impossibly far all at once.

They'll endure, though. She knows they will. She has faith that they will make it through.

She catches a glimpse of Eric leaning in to whisper into Ariel's ear and smiles, then drops enough money on the bar to cover her tab and makes her way back out into the thick of the night. After all, every girl deserves a chance to take the scenic route home.

\--

" _Two sugars, no cream. Thanks, sweetheart."_

Mary Margaret swears she may be driven to murder if she hears those words one more time. She deserves better than being the 'coffee girl'; hell, she deserves better than being a receptionist, and it's pulling teeth to get her superiors to allow her _that_.

No, this is turning out nothing like how she'd imagined.

And so she spends the morning shift of every workday waiting for lunch, the evening shift waiting for the day to be over, only to have to repeat the cycle again and again. Her only real comforts are the letters that arrive once or twice a week from David - just little tidbits about his day. And even if latrine duty is anything but romantic, just the sight of his handwriting is enough to lift her spirits.

By her calculations, she should be receiving another letter sometime today, and considering it's already lunch break, she only has a few more hours to wait before-

" _Ack!_ " she squeaks, before her voice is muffled by her attacker's hand clamping tightly over her mouth as she's pulled from the hallway into what can only be a supply closet. She acts on instinct, bringing her elbow up into the brute's jaw, surprising him enough to yelp and let her go.

But she doesn't run. No, when she turns to face him all she can do for a moment is stare. " _Charming?_ "

"I love you too," he mutters, rubbing his tender jaw until she launches herself into his arms, holding on with bruising strength.

"What are you doing here?" she says into his shoulder, trying to keep the tears from her voice.

"You didn't get my letter?" he says, and his arms are around her with just as possessive a grip as hers are around him. "Our training is over. We're shipping out tomorrow evening."

Her heart drops at that, though not entirely, because right now he's safe in her arms, and she is safe in his. She can't hold it back anymore though, choking up as she pulls him closer. "And so you just came waltzing into my place of work?"

He laughs, and his voice is laced with tears as well. "I had to see you."

She laughs then too, rising up on her toes to hug him more tightly. "Oh, I've missed you," she says, and pulls away to look at him, her thumb rubbing against the scar on his chin. "I've missed you so much."

"I told you I'd find you," he says, then leans down to kiss her.

\--

So, Mary Margaret is about ninety-nine percent certain she's going to be late returning from 'lunch'.

She's also one hundred percent certain she doesn't actually _care_.

No, she's pretty sure there's no way to care about fetching a major's coffee when her husband has her backed up against the wall of a supply closet, the pants of his uniform around his ankles and her skirt hiked up past her hips. There's really no way to care when his mouth is warm and familiar against her throat, when his hair slips through her fingers as he slides into her.

And just like that - though it's as if it's been an eternity since they've been in one another's arms - they fall into rhythm like not a day has passed.

It doesn't last long though, and before she knows it she's falling apart around him, and he's falling apart inside her, his face buried against her neck and her fingernails digging into the skin of his back.

It doesn't last long, but she'd wait an eternity for the sensation of his breath against her ear, the pull of his fingers in her hair.

"I love you, Snow."

\--

"I have to get back to work," Mary Margaret insists, casting around the dim closet for her underwear. "I'm already late."

"Late for what? Fetching coffee and bagels?" He smirks, dangling her panties from his fingers. "Looking for these?"

She snatches them from him quickly, and does her best to look presentable (because she's afraid professional may be a pipedream at this point). "Well, it _is_ my job. Not all of us get to jump out of airplanes."

He offers her an apologetic smile at that, and clumsily attempts to fix her mussed hair. "Well exactly when is your shift over? I need to see you again. Before-"

Before he leaves, she thinks. "I'll be off later tonight," she says, and turns to catch his hands in hers, holding on tightly.

"Good. Because I've already got a room reserved at the hotel on Main Street."

"I'll be there," she promises. "Anyway, I'm sure Ariel will enjoy having the apartment to herself."

"Ariel?"

"Oh, she's my new roommate. She's recently discovered the love of her life, and I'm _sure_ you remember how that is."

"Ah," David replies, eyes alight with mischief. "How could I ever forget? You'll have to tell me about her later."

"I guess I will," Mary Margaret grins and leans up for another kiss, lingering because the last time she'd said goodbye it had been for months. "Promise you'll be there?"

His hands press against the small of her back, warm and real. "Do you really doubt me?"

"Never."

\--

It's a nice hotel, much nicer than the two of them have ever been able to afford in their time together, but they pay that no mind; instead, they choose to spend their evening wrapped up in one another - half naked and swaying to the quiet sound of Mary Margaret's singing, her lips against his ear and his hand a reassuring weight on her hip.

They make a feast of sandwiches and cheap wine, sitting up eating half naked in bed, limbs entwined, as they talk - not of the Army or of the war, but of the future. "We'll get a farm," she tells him, curling up to lie against his chest. "When all this is over, you'll go to vet school and then we'll buy a farm. A hundred acres if you'd like."

He laughs, drawing his hand up the length of her spine. "And what will you do? Dust the fields? Become a famous high-flying daredevil?"

"Something like that," she agrees, tilting her head to look at him. "For a while. Until we really settle down; start a family."

"A family?" he says softly.

"Yeah, a kid or three. And then - if they're anything like you - I'll spend all my days chasing them around the house, trying to get them to wash up for supper."

He smiles. "Sounds nice."

"Mhm," she hums. "And when they're old enough - I don't know, maybe I'll teach."

"A teacher? Really?" he teases. "Aren't you a little violent for that?"

She scowls. "And you were nearly sick the first time I took you up in an airplane, but here you are, about to-"

He cuts her off, his mouth on hers because no - no, they won't talk about those things. Not tonight. There's no use sullying their last night together with talk of what could be; with talk of things that are so wildly out of their control. There's no point in feeling helpless when they can be feeling each other; no point in worrying when right now, in this moment, they're together.

And so she falls with him, his mouth like fire on her skin - leaving a series of marks in its wake - making her dizzy and flushed all over. This is what she wants to remember, she thinks; the heat of his body against hers, the sensation of his skin on hers, the rush of his mouth between her thighs.

"Charming," she breathes, and she doesn't need to say anything more; he shifts so she can straddle his lap, rocking against him as she leans her forehead to rest against his. "I love you," she says, and tries to make the words clear and certain, even if her mind is fuzzy and awash with pleasure, and even if she's met with only a broken whimper in response.

"I love you," she says again, just as she comes apart with him, tangled up in all that he is.

\--

He stirs, blinking blearily at her as she kisses him awake, her hand against his cheek. "Charming? I have to leave for work."

"No you don't," he insists, turning his head to kiss her fingertips. "Don't go."

She feels her heart break at that, and moreover, feels that she's the one who should be saying that line. "I wish I didn't have to," she whispers.

"Mmf," he groans, and laces his fingers with hers.

"When does your ship leave again?"

"Sixteen hundred hours," he murmurs. "Will you be there?"

She kisses his palm, watching his face in the morning light. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."

\--

Mary Margaret glances to the clock.

Thirteen hundred hours.

Only three more hours until her husband leaves, and she's not sure if she's counting down or stalling. On one hand, she'd rather he never see any fighting at all, while on the other she can't wait to see him again, even if for a few moments. It's a complicated array of emotions, one that she's been contemplating for the better part of the day when a distress signal comes in over the radio as she's delivering a stack of paperwork to the control room.

" _-ayday. Mayday. We've got engine failure. I repeat, engine failure. Over."_

She stops in her tracks, the papers crumpling within her hands.

And then the sergeant at the controls promptly gives the wrong corrective measures.

_No._

" _-to control. Corrective action ineffective. Over."_

The sergeant repeats his orders, more deliberately this time, but the pilot is still in distress.

" _-ayday. Mada-"_

"We can still save the aircraft. Do not bail. I repeat, do not bail."

Mary Margaret doesn't think twice. The plane is going down, the pilot is panicking and the person who is supposed to be _helping_ him is a downright idiot, putting a piece of machinery before a human life.

So she does the only thing she can do, and shoves the sergeant out of his chair, taking control of the radio. "Sir do you copy? Over."

" _-who is th-"_

"Your engine's gone," she says, straining to get her message out before she's ripped out of the seat again. "You need to find a safe place to drop that plane and get _out._ "

The sergeant takes over the radio again, frantically overriding her orders, "Ignore that command. Over."

But there is only silence on the radio as she's dragged from the control room.

\--

She's getting kicked out.

She isn't surprised. She knew from the moment that she disobeyed direct orders, the moment that she shoved a superior officer, the moment that she did the _right thing_ , that it was the end of her alarmingly short military career.

And so she watches the clock as her commander hollers at her, watching as it ticks down the minutes until she'll see her husband one last time because it's easier to focus on _something_ and she will _not_ cry. No, that isn't who she is. So she doesn't cry; not as she's stripped of her meager rank, not even as she's ordered to stay put and she watches the clock tick past fifteen hundred hours.

She doesn't cry, but she's awfully close by the time the door to the small room opens, and a smartly dressed blonde enters, a stack of papers in her arms. Military training still at the back of her mind, Mary Margaret jumps to her feet, standing at attention.

"Great work today," she says, and Mary Margaret frowns upon hearing no sarcasm in her tone. "Mrs. … Nolan, is it? My name is Ms. Bell."

Mary Margaret accepts a curt handshake from the woman before both women sit down at the small conference table. "I wouldn't exactly consider it my best work. After all, I lost my job for it."

Ms. Bell smiles. "Perhaps, but I'm sure you'd be happy to know that the pilot survived."

A small flame of pride flickers within Mary Margaret at that. "He did?"

"Bailed out just in time. Probably wouldn't have, if it weren't for you." The blonde is quiet for a moment before pushing a bundle of papers across the table toward Mary Margaret. "Your file says you're a pilot."

"Yes," says Mary Margaret, reaching out to flip through the pages - all full of military jargon. "Crop dusters. Why?"

"Have you ever heard of the Women's Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron?"

\--

No.

No no no no no this can't be happening. The world can't come tumbling down to _this_ degree, _this_ fast. It was one thing to be reprimanded and lose her job; it's another thing altogether to miss saying goodbye to the only man she's ever loved when he's going away for heaven knows how long, to miss saying goodbye to her husband when she may never see him again. And though she may be getting a second chance with the military, there are no second chances to say goodbye.

This simply _cannot_ be happening.

But it is.

Ms. Bell had been surprisingly understanding, offering her a caring smile and shooing her on her way with the assurance that this new opportunity would be there when she returned. That hadn't been the problem; not all of it anyway. No, the real problem had been _missing the goddamn bus,_ leaving her to run on foot the remainder of the way.

So by the time she gets to the dock, sprinting in bare feet with her shoes dangling from her fingers, all the soldiers are already aboard, some waving from the railings while others push up against the portholes, peering out at the crowds of loved ones - wives and daughters; mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers - that wave from the docks.

"David!" she calls, pushing through the throngs, scanning the mob of soldiers up on deck. "David! Charming!"

She swallows back tears when she hears the ship's engines roar to life, and for a moment, she almost loses hope.

And then she sees him - pressed up against a porthole ten yards away. She pushes and shoves her way through the crowd to get to him, losing her shoes and purse in the process. She drops to her knees beside the ship, pressing her hand against the glass as David mirrors her, pressing his own palm up next to hers.

"I'm sorry," she says, enunciating clearly so he can read her lips.

She makes out his silent response, his lips forming the words, "I love you."

He smiles, and she smiles back, because that's what their last memory should be - there should be no tears, no sorrow; just them.

And then he slips away into the fading light of evening, leaving nothing but emptiness beneath her palm.


	12. Divided we fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words before this chapter…
> 
> As I've said, I do what I can to keep this fic as close to historically accurate as I can manage, and try especially hard to keep everything that happens within the spirit of the time period. That being said, I cannot be entirely accurate when it comes to inserting a fictional character into a select category of women. There were only 1,074 WASPs throughout the duration of WWII, and even fewer went on to fill the highly specialized positions I may or may not portray within this story. In many cases, there isn't a recorded precedent – at least not one I've managed to find! – for some of the plot points I'm working with. Furthermore, as much as I try to keep my timelines above all historically accurate, sometimes I need to fudge a little. So please don't take this work of fiction for full-blown fact; instead, if you want to learn more about WASP or women during WWII, I encourage you to do the following...
> 
> Read! There are lots of great resources out there regarding not only WASP but WAAC, WAVES and women in WWII in general. There's a lovely memoir from a female test pilot in WWII called A Wasp Among Eagles by Ann Carl. Though very different from the type of test piloting I show Mary Margaret participating in, this book was a great inspiration for me, and I highly recommend it to anyone interested in WASP or women in the military. Clipped Wings by Molly Merryman is also a great account of the development of the WASP program and its impact on the modern US military. I used this book more as reference material and haven't read it all, but it's also a great resource if you'd like to learn more.
> 
> Watch! There's an amazing interview with WASP test pilot Mildred "Micky" Axton on YouTube. It's only ten minutes long, and very enlightening as well as entertaining. Additionally, unrelated to female pilots, I'd direct you to the Canadian TV show Bomb Girls, which shows a fairly accurate (to my knowledge) representation of women on the homefront. It reminds us that women continued to work under dangerous conditions, often through pregnancy and illness, because they needed the money and the war effort needed them.
> 
> Additionally, in this chapter I officially acknowledge the existence of a fictional military installation just outside of Storybrooke. It's been implied since the first chapter (with Albert Spencer working in aircraft design and manufacturing; the soldiers in the park when Mary Margaret and David are having lunch in Chapter Nine), but I realized I'd never actually specified its existence. So yes, it was in the cards from the beginning. I'm terrible at naming things though, so please don't poke too much fun at me for 'Camp Kitsis'. ;)
> 
> With that tediously long author's note out of the way, please read and enjoy (and try not to kill me).
> 
> PS: Angie is the best beta ever. Everyone should tell her so.

**Divided we fall.**

_Charming,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, as I haven't heard from you since you left. I can't help but worry, but I also know that no news is good news in these uncertain times, and take your silence as confirmation that you're safe and sound._

_I miss you. There's really not much more to say than that. I miss you, and while it's gotten easier to live without you, I feel as if I'm not really living at the same time. Some days, I wish I knew when this godforsaken war would be over - even if it's still years off - if only to have a day to look forward to. The uncertainty is what makes it hard; and while there is no doubt in my mind that you love me and will do all in your power to return home in one piece, I can't help but be swept up in the uncertainty of everything else._

_I love you._

_And now that I've surely made you blush and in turn made all the other boys jealous, it's time for the good news: no more ferrying for me! No, I'm still technically a part of WAFS, but we're merging with another squadron to form WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots). Most of my colleagues will continue to work in ferry and transport, but I've been selected for something far more exciting - I'm going to be a test pilot!_

_I know, I know. Now you're probably worried DESPITE knowing I'm perfectly capable of flying any plane they can hand me. You're probably worried and PRETENDING you aren't, but I know you are and truth be told it's rather endearing. But know I'm safe and - best news yet - I'm HOME. Or at least as home as I can be without you there. The best part of the position was that it's at Camp Kitsis, so I can move back to Storybrooke and back in with Ruby. It's almost like times before the war, before we were both married. Almost._

_Love and miss you with all my heart,_

_Your Snow_

_December 1,1942_

_PS: Ruby sends her regards, and asks you keep an eye out for Peter in case you may cross paths. Surely a friendly face would be of some comfort with all that's going on there._

\--

Mary Margaret leans through the doorway of her old apartment, rapping her fist softly on the open door. "Knock knock."

Ruby about _shrieks_ upon seeing her, dropping the dishes in the sink to run over to her friend, drawing her into a tight embrace. "I thought you were going to be another day at least!" she squeaks.

"I caught an earlier train," Mary Margaret explains, hugging Ruby back with equal fervor. The past months have been the longest they've gone without seeing one another since the day they met, and it isn't so much returning to the cramped apartment as it is the weight of Ruby's presence that makes her feel as if she's come home. "I hope that isn't a problem."

"Not at all," says Ruby, pulling away to hold her at arms' length for a moment before hugging her again. "Oh, I've missed you."

"I missed you too," Mary Margaret replies, laughing a little. "But you won't need to miss me anymore. I'm back."

They make dinner together, just like old times, though with war rations in full swing they're careful not to waste any valuable food. It's a comforting exercise - some degree of normalcy since her world has been up-ended _again_ , and she's been left feeling a little lost without David there to guide her. She's done fine, of course, but finally having the comfort and security of a familiar home to return to again is enough to calm her few anxieties.

"So what's it like being some big important Army pilot?" Ruby teases over dinner, and Mary Margaret laughs.

"I wouldn't say important. So far all I've done is ferried planes and supplies from base to base." So far, but soon she'll be doing much more than that. It's both daunting and exhilarating to think she'll be one of the first female test pilots the United States has ever seen. "It isn't as if I'm out taking down the Red Baron and dodging Nazi artillery."

Ruby nudges Mary Margaret's foot with her own. "It's still important, you know."

"More important than fetching coffee and donuts," she jokes, then looks at Ruby seriously. "I really have missed you, you know."

"I know," Ruby says. "Me too."

\--

David leans over the letter he's been writing, pressing the crumpled paper against his thigh and straining to see in the dim light offered him by the streetlamp. He promised he'd write every day, after all, and though fatigue weighs heavily on him, he isn't about to break that promise yet, even if it means scrambling to finish before blackout.

"Oi, shouldn't you be gettin' some rest?"

David looks up to find a British officer making his way down the street toward him, stepping into the lamplight to reveal dark hair, sharp blue eyes and a face lined with stubble and exhaustion. "Just have to finish this letter first," he says, and scribbles out a heartfelt farewell.

"No hurry, mate, just making sure nothing's amiss." The man, pauses, reaching to the inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out a flask. "Care for a drink?"

David eyes him for a moment, before accepting the proffered flask and taking a quick swig. "Mmf," he grimaces. "Rum."

"Aye, though not the best," his companion replies, taking a long drink as well. "Hard to come by these days."

"I can imagine," says David, only about half-cognizant of the conversation as he rereads the letter. There's rarely much to say - or rather, much that he _can_ say without endangering himself and his entire platoon - but he always finds something; even if just to tell her about England, and how she would love the cities and towns, how they'll have to find reason to visit here someday, in happier times.

"Girl back home?"

David smiles sheepishly. "Is it that obvious?"

"I'm afraid you look downright smitten."

David feels the blood rise to his cheeks. "It's my wife," he says, reaching into his jacket for her photograph. "Mary Marg-"

"Hold up there, mate," the man says, wincing as he casts his gaze to the side. "Showing a war buddy a photograph of your girl back home is notorious bad luck. Keep 'er to yourself." He takes another long draw of rum and then smiles. "How long have you been married?"

David sighs, suddenly overcome by a strong feeling of nostalgia. "Only since last July."

"Ah," the man grins knowingly, lifting his flask in mock-toast. "A war-time wedding then. I suppose congratulations are in order, ah-"

"David - err - Private Nolan."

"Pleasure to meet you, David," he says, offering his hand. "The name's Killian. Lieutenant Killian Jones."

\--

Mary Margaret trudges up the stairs to her apartment, stomps through her front door and grumbles, "This has to be some sort of sick joke."

Ruby responds from the kitchen, not even looking up from the pot she's stirring on the stove. "What does?"

Mary Margaret practically slams the door. "Do you remember Albert Spencer?" she asks snippily, dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes.

"Albert as in your father-in-law Albert?" Ruby frowns.

" _Step_ father-in-law, technically," Mary Margaret corrects, then pauses as she's overcome by a distinctly pungent smell. "Good lord, what are you making?"

"Spaghetti," Ruby replies, casting her a half-glare. "And what about him?"

Spaghetti or not, the smell still turns Mary Margaret's stomach, but she swallows the nausea and lifts herself to sit on the counter. "Well, do you remember how I told you he worked with airplanes? That he worked with _new_ , _experimental_ aircraft?"

Ruby stares for a moment, mouth agape, and then, " _New, experimental_ aircraft as in the kind of _new, experimental_ aircraft you're test piloting?"

Mary Margaret smiles unhappily and taps her nose with her finger.

"Well, _shit_."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Mary Margaret sighs, wondering if maybe she should have stuck with being a glorified deliverywoman instead of taking the unique opportunity. But in the end she knows she wouldn't have been able to resist returning home, to having Ruby and Granny and Leroy so close again; to having her family. "Ruby, what am I going to do?"

Ruby offers her a sympathetic look. "You can't very well quit, can you?"

"Not really," Mary Margaret replies, tugging nervously at the hem of her sleeve. "And I don't really _want_ to quit, it's just … Albert."

"He's a piece of work, huh?" Ruby muses before tasting her sauce and humming happily at her work.

Mary Margaret can't help but think how detached Albert had been at both Ruth's and James's funerals, how Ruth had spent months dying without her husband at her side. It isn't so much about his distaste for _her_ anymore, but rather his complete disregard for his family. "You have no idea."

"But it isn't like he's your boss, right? Not directly, I mean."

"No, thank God."

Ruby piddles around the kitchen, getting two plates ready for supper. "Then he can't really do anything to you. Fire you or anything."

"He can make my life miserable!" Mary Margaret groans and wrinkles her nose at the spaghetti, before sliding down from the counter and padding away to her room. "Thanks, but I think I might just get some sleep."

Ruby smiles sympathetically. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I will," Mary Margaret promises, though what she really needs - a good night's rest without worry, a job that does _not_ involve Albert Spencer, and most of all her husband home safe and sound - are things completely out of Ruby's control.

\--

"That _bastard_." Mary Margaret slams the door on her way inside, kicking off her shoes and dumping her things on the floor.

Ruby doesn't bat an eyelash, sprawled across the sofa with a book open on her chest. "Albert, I presume?"

Mary Margaret winces. "Is it really that obvious?"

"No-one knows how to push your buttons like he does," Ruby explains, grimacing as she pushes herself up to sit. "What did he do this time?"

Mary Margaret plops into the armchair with an exasperated sigh. "We have this new plane. I can't really divulge any details but … well, it isn't exactly _new_. All the kinks have been worked out, we're just working on improving fuel efficiency, making sure the new fuel mixtures give it as much power as they'll need in a fight. But he knows I've been _dying_ to get my hands on it and this test was supposed to be _mine_."

"And he won't let you near it," Ruby surmises, curling up again.

"He _pointedly_ won't let me," Mary Margaret corrects, voice bordering on a growl. "I've had it up to _here_ with his chauvinistic pigheadery."

"And here I thought you'd gotten to that point the moment you met him," Ruby comments sarcastically, though her voice is edged with pain. "Mary Margaret? Is there any chance you could heat up a water bottle for me?"

"What? _Oh_." Mary Margaret jumps to her feet and makes her way into the kitchen to put the kettle on, offering Ruby a sympathetic smile. "That time again?"

"What gave it away?" Ruby replies wryly.

"Something between the lying in the fetal position on the sofa and the near groaning." In a way, the act of fetching supplies is a much needed distraction from the fruitless exercise of fuming over Albert's antics. She can whine and rant as much as she wants, and it won't get her any closer to the cockpit of that plane. But taking care of Ruby? That at least has a purpose.

"Mm," Ruby hums, then calls out to the kitchen. "Need to work on my acting, then. Maybe you could give me some lessons. After all, it seems like the Army has trained you out of whining over Mother Nature."

Mary Margaret is just deciding to make some chamomile tea as well, pulling down their mugs and a pair of teabags when Ruby's words strike something in her mind. "I guess so," she agrees with a frown, her thoughts now clouded by something far more important than Albert's ignorance.

\--

Mary Margaret swallows thickly, takes a deep breath and steps inside her apartment where Ruby is on the sofa, busy repurposing old drapes into a dress.

As expected, it takes approximately five seconds for her to respond with a startled shout. "Your _hair_!"

Mary Margaret bites her lip and quietly closes the door behind her. "Is it that bad?" she asks nervously, touching the boy-short strands as she watches Ruby stare with mouth agape.

"No no, it isn't _bad_ ," Ruby explains, but she still looks a tad bewildered. "Just … _why_?"

"It's going to be getting in the way."

"You've never had a problem with it before," Ruby frowns. "There's no way these new fancy airplanes are that different, so what gives?"

"It was just becoming too much," Mary Margaret explains, then feels a stir of anxiety in her gut. "Fitting it under the helmet, getting it to adhere to Army regs. Not to mention sticky fingers and that babies always like to pull-"

Ruby is quiet at first, her eyes widening further. "Babies?"

Mary Margaret bites her lip again, this time to contain a smile, and nods.

"You're pregnant," Ruby says; a statement, not a question.

"Yes," she replies, hardly a whisper, but behind it is barely contained excitement.

"Oh my goodness!" Ruby squeaks, dropping her sewing to the floor before bounding over to tackle Mary Margaret in an ecstatic hug. "Oh my gosh, that's wonderful!"

"Yeah?" she asks uncertainly, hugging her friend back as tightly as she can.

"Of course!" Ruby beams, pulling away to hold Mary Margaret at arms' length. "David will be thrilled."

Mary Margaret tries not to choke up at that, thinking of the letter that she'd just sent off to Europe; a letter that he may not receive for weeks. "You think so?"

"Of course he will!" Ruby insists. "Oh my gosh, you're _pregnant_."

"Yes," Mary Margaret laughs as Ruby hugs her again. "Well, I think so. I'm still waiting to hear back from my doctor, but … the timing lines up."

"That's just wonderful," Ruby smiles. "I'm so happy for you."

\--

They decide this calls for celebration, so they make their way to Granny's, where she gives them each a scoop of ice cream - a real treat that neither of them have been able to afford, but that Granny is happy to slip them upon hearing the good news.

"So how long do you plan on flying in your condition?" Granny asks, leaning towards them over the bar as the two younger women giggle over their dessert.

Mary Margaret hums happily as she swallows a bite of ice cream. "Well, I imagine I'll get to a point where I won't exactly fit in the cockpit." Ruby snickers at that, and Granny casts her a look of warning. "But I suppose it's no different than other girls working in the factories until their - _condition_ as you called it - becomes apparent."

"Mm," Granny muses, swallowing the bad feeling that twists in her stomach.

"We can't really afford for me to lose another job so quickly," Mary Margaret explains further. "I won't get the 'official' news for another day or so, though. And then - I'll figure out what I have to do."

"You could always do paperwork and such until the baby comes," Ruby suggests, and Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose at that. "Oh! And when you're back to flying, Granny and I can look after the baby for you!"

"Happily," Granny adds kindly. "Whatever help you need."

And she means it; Mary Margaret is just as much her granddaughter as Ruby is, and she'd do anything for that girl's happiness.

So that night, once the girls have helped turn the chairs up on the tables and swept the floors, Granny pulls out a thick skein of wool and casts on a row of neat stitches. Because even in the hardest, most uncertain of times, a child is always cause for celebration.

\--

There hasn't been much time to unpack since Mary Margaret returned home, but she quickly gets to the point where the stacks of boxes - not to mention the tiresome chore of living out of a suitcase - is getting on her nerves. It may not be the way she'd originally planned to spend her day off, but then again, there isn't much she can afford to do to begin with; especially not with a baby on the way.

The clothes are easy enough, and she even takes the time to hang up some of David's as well. It eases the loneliness a bit to see his suit hanging alongside her favorite dress, to tug one of his favorite work shirts over her head and let the sleeves fall to the tips of her fingers.

The paperwork, however, is a mess.

Everything had happened so fast - two deaths, two enlistments and their last minute wedding - all events heavy with paperwork; not so convenient when she's spent the past months hopping from post to post before finally ending up back where she'd started. So she spends the better part of an hour sorting and folding, choosing which items are important enough to keep and which are best to be rid of.

And there, in a stack of old scribbles, she finds something she'd never meant to lose.

When Ruth died, she didn't have much to give to her children; after all, her assets still belonged to her husband. She'd been able to give a few things to David, and had set some aside for James. And even for Mary Margaret, she'd left a letter.

A letter Mary Margaret had never gotten to read.

It had been forgotten in the chaos of learning of James' death, in the preparations for a funeral, in the jumble of enlistment; lost in a shuffle of far less important paperwork - until now.

She opens it carefully, before pulling free a letter in Ruth's flowing script and frowning when a necklace with a heavy pendant falls into her palm.

_My dear Mary Margaret,_

_If you are reading this, I'm afraid I am no longer with you. I hope you will not shed too many tears on my account; after all, I have lived a full and happy life, blessed with two wonderful sons and filled with happiness. My one regret is that I have not lived long enough to see you become officially part of the family. You've made my David so very happy, and I'm sure you'll take good care of one another in the years to come._

_I want you to have this necklace. It was my mother's, and her mother's before her. I suppose it's a bit of a family superstition, but it's said to be able to predict the sex of your unborn child - should the pendant swing east to west, the child will be a girl; north to south, a boy. I know it's silly superstition, but it worked with my boys, so perhaps it will work for you as well. And most of all, it's important to keep such tokens in the family. I trust you to keep it safe._

_I'm sorry to leave you both so soon, and I'm sorry I don't have much to give you but this necklace, and my blessing. Be happy, love with abandon, and never be afraid to lean on one another. Together, you'll make it in the end._

_With all my love. Always,_

_Ruth_

Mary Margaret smiles, blinking as tears threaten her and she wonders how some things manage to fall into your lap just as you need them.

Truthfully, her biggest fear in learning that she'll soon be a mother is that she doesn't have a mother of her own to lean on. Of course, she has Granny, and for the old woman's kindness and welcoming arms she'll be forever grateful, but the loss of her mother - and of Ruth - weighs heavily on her. And while the letter has her blinking back tears she'd thought long since shed, it also lends her the confidence she so desperately needs.

That night, lying in bed in the moonlight, she finally works up the courage to tug the necklace over her head and dangle it above her still-flat stomach. At first, nothing happens, and then slowly - _very_ slowly - the thick pendant begins to swing, just barely, from east to west.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pendant stops.

Mary Margaret frowns.

And she waits.

She waits and waits and waits and … nothing happens.

The clouds soon shift, covering the moon and shrouding her room in darkness. She sighs, loops the necklace back over her head and does her best to sleep. But something dark pulls at her thoughts, tugging at her until at last sleep takes her, the stillness of the pendant still vivid in her mind.

\--

Mary Margaret is beginning to wonder if morning sickness is in part psychosomatic, because the nausea and unease has more than doubled since accepting her condition. She isn't quite miserable, but the trend isn't looking great. Though that isn't really a problem for work; after all, she barely gets any flying time thanks to her (step) father-in-law, who seems almost happy to find her queasy and exhausted when she reports for duty.

So of course he'd choose today of all days to let her in the cockpit of the plane she's been making doe-eyes at for nearly two weeks.

"What?"

"Did I stutter, _Miss Blanchard_?" he says, emphasizing the use of her maiden name. "You're up. Unless you don't think you can cut it."

She bristles at that, her roiling anger holding the nausea at bay. "I'm the best damn pilot here, _sir_."

"Then I'd suggest you prove it, _young lady_ ," he snipes condescendingly. "Before I find someone who can."

\--

Mary Margaret is bubbling over with excitement as she familiarizes herself with the controls of the Hellcat, then takes her off up into the air with the ease and grace of a lady. She flies like a dream, not that Mary Margaret had expected anything less. This is just a dry run, after all; no FTTs*, no stunts, just her and the Hellcat and miles upon miles of open sky.

There's nothing quite like flying to clear her mind, and she certainly needs it these days. She hasn't heard from David in over a week, and while she knows that mail is slower than ever during wartime, some irrational portion of her mind has taken to imagining him reacting poorly to her news, and an even darker corner of her mind has imagined all sorts of terrible things that could have happened. Ruby, of course, does all in her power to allay her fears, reminding her that she hasn't heard from Peter in just as long, that if something had happened she'd be the _first_ to know, and - most of all - that David will be anything but upset at the news of their unborn child.

Yes, Ruby tries, but there's something about this freedom that calms her more than any-

She feels a tug of wind on her tail, stronger than she'd expected and corrects, giving the plane some throttle until it steadies.

"A little bumpy out here," she grumbles, half to the radio and half to herself as a wave of nausea rises in her throat. "Don't think it's anything wrong with the plane herself but-"

She doesn't get a chance to finish that thought before she's distracted by something far more unsettling than turbulence. A twist of pain grips her abdomen, radiating through her hips then all the way down to her toes. It passes, leaving only a dull ache, but the distraction is enough to let the turbulence take her again.

There is no correcting her flight pattern, no signaling for any useful help before she finds herself hurtling toward the ground with no hope of stopping. There's nothing she can do but swallow her nausea and keep calm, reminding herself that this will be far from her first crash landing, and it's unlikely to be her last; there's nothing she can do but pull up and hope for a relatively smooth landing.

It isn't though, and she pushes on the brakes as hard as she can as she tears across the empty field, bumping over grass and rocks that don't manage to slow her down at all. But she lands safely enough, no real damage to her or the plane until she feels the _thump_ of hitting a small boulder beneath her landing gear and the _smack_ of her head against the console, and everything fades to black.

\--

" _Nolan? Nolan? Do you copy?_ "

Mary Margaret comes to, blinking as her mind pieces together the details of the crash - the nausea, the pain, the careless mistake that sent her tumbling to the ground. She's only been out for a few minutes, she realizes, seeing the smoke coming off the engine and the dust still settling around her; no sign of help in sight.

" _Nolan, I repeat, do you copy?_ "

She groans, the frequency of the radio a dull knife to her already-throbbing head. She reaches up to touch her forehead and hisses at the pressure, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. "I'm here," she croaks.

" _What's your status? Are you okay?_ "

Then she feels it, that lurch in her abdomen again that isn't so much a lurch this time but _blinding pain_. And when she looks down, she's terrified to find blood pooling between her legs.

"No," she says numbly. "No, I'm not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *FTT - Flight Test Technique, or a specific maneuver designed to evaluate the design of an aircraft.


	13. Help those that bleed for you.

**Help those that bleed for you.**

 

_Charming,_

_I have the most wonderful news, even if perhaps now is not the best time. Even if perhaps now is the_ worst _time, it’s still the most wonderful news and I’m only sorry I’m not able to tell you in person._

_You’re going to be a father._

_Yes, you read that right. I’m pregnant! I know this isn’t exactly something we’d planned, and I know there is so much to think about, so many things I haven’t accounted for yet, but still I couldn’t be happier. With how uncertain and frightening these times are, it’s almost a comfort to know that a part of you will always be with me._

_Please send word when you receive this letter. I -_ we - _will be anxiously awaiting your response._

_Love, always and forever,  
Your Snow._

_Received February 4, 1943._

 

\--

 

The call comes at work, not that there is much to do - no one seems to have the money for frivolities like dining out these days - and Granny is about a third of the way through knitting the thick, wool blanket.

It’s for Ruby.

“Ruby isn’t here,” she says, her heart in her throat and her prayers with her granddaughter’s soldier husband. “This is her grandmother.”

But whatever bad news she was expecting, this isn’t it.

She sets the blanket aside, unfinished.

\--

It seems as if it’s been an eternity since David has heard from his wife, and though he would never doubt her diligence to write him every day, the postal silence has caused a sense of quiet dread to build within him the past week; that perhaps something has gone wrong in his absence while he’s stuck on the other side of the world, helpless to comfort her.

(He tells himself that’s ridiculous, that Mary Margaret is more than capable of taking care of herself, but the fear lingers somewhere in the recesses of his mind.)

So even though he hasn’t given up on Mary Margaret - would never give up on her - he decides he’s lost faith in the postal system, convinced that her letters are held up in some censoring office, where some poor fellow blacks out her words, leaving the message a meager skeleton of what it had been. That is until mail call, when the sergeant drops a large stack of envelopes in David’s lap, winks and teases, “Seems like someone’s popular with the ladies back home.”

The blood rushes to his cheeks, just as the gnawing anxiety loosens itself from the pit of his stomach. Each and every letter is from a ‘Mary Margaret Nolan’.

(He’ll never tire of seeing it in writing.)

She’s fine; his ridiculous paranoia just that, and the postal system even slower than he’d expected. Sure enough, upon closer inspection he finds a letter for every day since they parted, up until eight days ago. He’ll start from the beginning, of course, and stay up all night if that’s how long it will take to finish them all.

**\--**

Everything is … heavy.

And dark.

Mary Margaret remembers this feeling, this sense of leaden weightlessness where she drifts through an endless void, pushed and pulled effortlessly by ethereal currents even as her limbs are just too _heavy_ to move. Caught in liquid dark, nothing hurts; she feels nothing but the weight of her body buoyed on the tide, and she sinks into it.

A familiar voice.

_“How is she?”_

_“She took a good blow to the head, but there shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”_

She’s suddenly aware of a faint pounding in her head, reverberating in her temples.

_“And -- and the baby?”_

Ruby, she thinks. It’s Ruby.

A sigh.

_“It’s too soon to tell.”_

Too soon. Too soon.

The baby. The baby.

She fights against the current, the drums in her head suddenly an echoing tattoo as the glorious blackness fades to harsh and unforgiving light; she remembers the spiral, the crash, the crack of her head against the console and the telltale smear of blood between her legs.

She reaches out, her eyelids still too heavy to lift - a sedative, she thinks - and gropes for Ruby’s hand with her own.

\--

“Bloody hell, mate. Did your lass write you a novel?”

“The mail’s been backed up,” David explains, squinting to read in the dim light. “ _Lieutenant._ ”

He’s dimly aware of his companion tugging a flask from within his coat, taking a quick swig before pressing it into David’s hand. “I told you, Killian will do.”

David barely breaks from his reading to take a small gulp of rum before returning the flask. The alcohol burns his throat and warms the blood in his veins. Mary Margaret’s writing is just barely legible in the dim evening light, and he’s still got one more letter after this. He’s torn, wanting both to finish and have time to write her a response this evening, but also to read each word she’s written with careful precision, not wanting to waste a single arch or swoop of her script.

“Lights out soon,” Killian says, somewhere between a reminder and a warning. “Blackout orders and all.”

David shoots him an annoyed glance. “I know.”

And Killian is quiet at that, but remains, leaning against the wall beside him as he nurses his drink. The light fades further, and as David folds one letter and turns to the last, he can barely make out the message. For once, the letter is free of censorship, just long careful lines left by Mary Margaret’s hand - all but illegible in the starlight. _… the most wonderful news … pregnant …_

His heart skips a beat.

He rereads the line, once, then twice, then holds the letter up to the sky, the dim glow of the stars backlighting the page.

_I’m pregnant!_

He gapes, his mind simultaneously pulling a blank as to how to respond and whirling with a thousand questions, a hundred pleas for more information that this short message can’t possibly answer. They’re having a _baby_. He’s going to be a _father_. But when? He counts, thinking back to their last moments together, in a hotel room they could barely afford; to goodbyes that weren’t meant to be their last. One month. Two months. Nearly three now. Perhaps a little more? So six months then.

(This war will not be over in six months, he realizes with a pang of sorrow. Now that he’s here - now that he’s seen how conflict has torn through Europe, leaving gaping scars in its wake - he knows it won’t be over soon.)

“You all right there, mate? Something gone wrong back home?”

David blinks, pushing past the pit of regret sinking in his stomach, and turns to Killian who clearly thinks he’s just received a _Dear John_ letter.

“I’m going to be a father,” he says, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and tears coming unbidden to his eyes.

Killian’s eyes widen at that, mouth agape as it takes him a moment to respond. “Congratulations,” he says at last, shaking David’s hand with a firm grip. “I suppose this calls for celebration.” But he doesn’t reach for his flask, instead he slings an arm around David’s shoulders and begins to lead him down the lane. “I’ve got a special bottle tucked away in my trunk,” he explains. “Was saving it for when the war ended, but since that doesn’t seem bloody likely, this seems as good a time as any.”

\--

Mary Margaret’s head is still pounding, bandaged with a strip of clean white gauze, when the doctor comes to give her his diagnosis.

“There’s no definitive evidence of miscarriage,” says Dr. Whale; his way of sidestepping around the discomfort of telling her that her child hadn’t completely self-aborted. “And the bleeding has subsided. The most we can do now is wait and hope for the best.”

It isn’t at all what Mary Margaret had wanted to hear; she isn’t one to take things lying down, and this borderline homeopathic prescription for bedrest reminds her a little too much of the hurry-up-and-wait atmosphere that the military apparently condones. She rests her hands against the gentle, almost imperceptible outward curve of her abdomen, as if this act alone could lend her baby the strength it needs. “That’s it? I’m just supposed to -- to sit back and wait.”

Ruby’s hand covers one of hers; maybe she needs a little strength as well.

“I’m afraid that’s all we _can_ do. At least for now.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, and that alone threads an extra strand of fear in her heart. “In a couple weeks, we should be able to detect a heartbeat. Or you might feel the baby move. Until then, I believe the best course of action is for you to stay home, rest. Let your body heal.”

Mary Margaret swallows hard. “I don’t care about _my_ body,” she says, and tries her hardest not to cry.

\--

_Snow,_

_I have no words. I feel like there should be something grand and important for me to say, but all I can think is how much I want to kiss you senseless right now. I’m thrilled. Overjoyed. Ecstatic. A thousand other words come to mind, but none of them are adequate to describe how happy I am right now._

_I must go. I’m writing this in the dark as it is, but I just couldn’t wait. I love you. I love_ both _of you more than anything._

_Yours forever and always,  
Charming_

_February 4, 1943._

\--

“Special delivery,” Ruby chimes, slipping into Mary Margaret’s room with a heavy box in her arms.

Mary Margaret meets her smile with a sullen expression.

“I know you must be bored,” Ruby tries again, doing her best to keep her tone light and hopeful. The doctor had said to minimize stress, lecturing them both on the effects of rising blood pressure. Unfortunately, sentencing Mary Margaret to bedrest and ordering her to avoid stress presents a bit of a paradox. It’s been a week, and she’s had to break the bed rest order at least twice; fresh air seems to help, even if Ruby worries her friend is exerting herself too much. She heaves the box onto the nightstand and pulls out a stack of books, a checkers set and a deck of cards. “So I went digging through Granny’s attic.”

“Mm,” Mary Margaret acknowledges her, just barely. “Thanks.”

“We could play a game,” Ruby offers. She perches carefully on the edge of the bed, watching as her friend pulls a necklace over her head, frowning as it dangles from her fingers. “Or we could just sit together and read,” she tries instead.

Mary Margaret does not respond, eyes fixed on the motionless pendant.

Ruby sighs, and indelicately flops herself onto the bed beside Mary Margaret. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t keep this up. It isn’t doing any good, you know? Aren’t you the one who’s always preaching about hope and positivity? Well, that’s what you need right now, and if you aren’t going to do it yourself then I--”

A broken sob.

“Oh, Mary Margaret,” she murmurs, turning to draw her best friend into her arms, rubbing her back in long even strokes as she cries.

\--

_David,_

_I don’t know when this letter will reach you. It may very well be that by the time you’re reading this, it won’t matter anymore. Regardless, I’ve enclosed enough money for you to hopefully make two phone calls as soon as you are able. Call Granny and she’ll send for Mary Margaret._

_Ruby_

_Received three weeks later._

_\--_

Outside, snow begins to fall in big chunky flakes that coat the sidewalk in a carpet of white, and the cold permeates the thin walls of the apartment; the radiator hisses and rattles as it struggles to fight against the chill. She’s buried under half a dozen blankets, cocooned herself in bed while she waits. (Because she cannot sleep, not with the knot of anxiety pooling in her gut.)

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Mary Margaret hasn’t written David in over two weeks.

It’s the longest she’s spent without writing him, and though she feels intensely guilty for breaking her promise to write to him every single day, she can’t bear to tell him what’s happened. They say it’s best to keep your bad news to yourself; there’s no use to worry your man when he’s overseas, when there’s absolutely nothing he can do to help, when a moment of distraction could cost him his life. She’d always thought that was foolish, that it negates the very premise of marriage and tenet of sharing your burdens. In fact, she’d promised herself she would never be one of those women, that she would always be perfectly frank with her husband about her wellbeing.

But now, plagued by nightmares of an empty cradle, of pine boxes draped in flags, she understands.

She’ll write him when she knows either way. There’s no sense in worrying him until she knows for certain.

And, as the case might be, she could know in a few hours. Ruby will be home then, coming by to take her to a doctor’s appointment where they will listen for the baby’s heartbeat. If they find it, then she can gradually ease herself back into her routine (without the flying, that is). If they don’t … well, Dr. Whale assures her it could take several more weeks before they’ll be able to hear the heartbeat.

(She doesn’t want to think about the possibility of them being unable to find it, doesn’t want to think what the next steps would be then.)

The street is completely obscured with snow by the time she works up the courage to pull Ruth’s necklace from around her neck, dangling it carefully above the gentle swell of her stomach. As always, the pendant remains motionless, mocking her.

“Please,” she whispers, as if somehow some silly necklace could change fate.

The moment stretches into infinity, until finally, as if by magic, the pendant begins to move, just barely.

She holds her breath, watching intently.

And as the necklace gains momentum, chain swinging lazily from east to west, she feels a flutter of something soft and strong within her womb.

And she cries.

\--

The mail is unreliable. David keeps reminding himself of this. He’s gone nearly a month without a single letter before, so it shouldn’t be any cause for alarm when he hasn’t heard from Mary Margaret in nearly two weeks. But he can’t shake this feeling, this nagging ache in his chest that tells him that something just isn’t _right_ ; a feeling that is justified when mail call comes around, and his only letter is from a Mrs. Ruby Holloway.

His eyes scan the words, his heart pounding in his ears. It makes no sense. _Call Granny_. Why? What’s happened that needs his attention so soon? And what’s more, the letter is dated three weeks ago.

_It may very well be that by the time you’re reading this, it won’t matter anymore._

Ice shoots through his veins as he reads that line again, and the pang of dread that has been haunting him for weeks twists in his gut; his vision goes grey around the edges. (He can’t help but think of his mother, of his brother and of so many others he’s lost. He can’t help but think the worst when Hell is all around him.)

He’s already rushing out into the street when he shoves his hand into the envelope, searching for the money Ruby had promised to include, only to come up empty. He stops in his tracks for a moment, turning the damn thing upside down and shakes it, just in case. “Damn it,” he mutters, fishing in his pockets for what money he has with him. He doubts it will be enough - the transatlantic system is obscenely expensive - but he has to try.

“Whoa there, mate. Where are you heading off to in such a rush?”

David doesn’t even break stride, but Killian falls into step with him regardless.

“The transatlantic,” he says simply, the quivering in his voice betraying his anxiety. He doesn’t explain, just pushes Ruby’s letter into the other man’s hands. “Hopefully I’ve got enough to pay for it. Looks like someone in censorship must have taken what she sent.”

Killian reads as they walk. “I can spot you what you need,” he says finally, his tone grim as he passes the letter back to David.

They round the corner that leads to communications and David grits his teeth; the line is predictably long. And while he understands, he doesn’t have the patience for it right now. It’s been _three weeks_ and god knows what’s happened in that time. He queues up behind a group of young British soldiers and twists the paper between his fingers.

“ ’ey!” Killian barks, and a half dozen of them jump to attention, snapping sharp salutes. “What do you think you lot are doing? Lights out.”

“But Lieutenant--”

“Lights out,” he says, a hard edge to his voice.

David gapes, watching as the group scatters, significantly shortening the time he’ll spend in line, even if they were probably waiting for local service, not the transatlantic. “Thank you,” he says blandly, still a bit stunned. It’s bizarre, and borderline fraternization, that of all the men he’s met here, he’s befriended (for lack of a better term) an officer when he’s just the bottom of the barrel when it comes to rank, but he’s thanking his lucky stars for it in this moment.

“Call me a romantic,” Killian responds dryly, apparently unfazed.

And so they wait.

It isn’t a line that moves particularly fast, and there’s always the risk that David will have to come back in the morning. That worries him the most; he won’t sleep until he knows what’s going on back home. (He thinks of Mary Margaret, pregnant and alone, and all the things that could go wrong.)

“You know, there are two things I’d risked my life for,” Killian says in way of small talk. “Love and revenge.”

(David has learned that his companion is remarkably bad at small talk, but he’s grateful for the attempt at a distraction.)

David manages a little scoff of laughter. “Then I guess you must really love your country.”

Killian sneaks a sip of rum, then offers David the flask, commenting that it might calm his nerves. “No,” he says. “But I loved my brother.”

That draws David’s attention, and he chokes as the alcohol stings his throat.

Unfortunately, he isn’t able to dwell on that thought for long. A shrill shriek pierces the night, ringing in their ears.

Air raid sirens.

\--

Mary Margaret has long since learned that no good news comes in the form of a telegram.

Good news takes its time. It comes by mail; a letter or a package sent days, weeks, even months ago.

Bad news is urgent. It’s hand delivered by some poor boy who has seen far too many grief-stricken mothers, too many new widows.

They’re baking when they get the news. They can get more out of their rations if they make their own bread, even if it invariably ends with both their faces smeared in flour, their clothes bearing white dusty handprints from girlish jokes. Mary Margaret giggles conspiratorially, coats her hands again in flour and swats at Ruby’s behind. (She’s wearing a black dress, and Mary Margaret - having the maturity of a teenage boy - thinks it’s hilarious.)

There’s a knock at the door, and Mary Margaret slips away to answer it, untying her apron from its place wrapped snugly above her growing bump.

It’s a messenger, Mary Margaret realizes when she pulls the door open, and her heart leaps into her throat.

She’s dimly aware of Ruby creeping up behind her, intent on revenge, and then she sees him too, her laughter stopping abruptly.

“Telegram for Mrs. Ruby Holloway.”


	14. A careless word, another cross.

**A careless word, another cross.**

_THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR HUSBAND PRIVATE FIRST CLASS PETER HOLLOWAY WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN DEFENSE OF HIS COUNTRY IN WESTERN EUROPE JUNE 4 1943._

\--

There is nothing Mary Margaret can say. There are no words that will bring Peter back, no magic spell that can turn back time and undo what’s already been done. And there is nothing that can be said that will ease Ruby’s suffering (nothing to be said that doesn’t betray her own utter, shameful relief).

There is nothing; nothing but her friend’s hot tears against her neck, nothing but heart wrenching sobs and the shattered remains of a future full of laughter and promise. Like so many others, Ruby’s marriage has ended before it’s even truly begun, and while Storybrooke will mourn for Peter – the Daily Mirror will surely print a story, third page in the lower right-hand corner with the headline _LOCAL BOY AMONG DEAD IN DEVASTATING BATTLE –_ but in a week, maybe a month, they’ll hardly remember Peter Holloway, and how he’d spent his summers terrorizing Mrs. Potter’s chickens. In time, Storybrooke will pay no mind to his absence, but Ruby? Ruby will relive this awful memory for the rest of her life.

Finally, Mary Margaret manages to pry the flag from Ruby’s fingers, its crisp folds now wrinkled and ruffled by her fierce grip, and sets it reverently on the bedside table, beside a photograph of Ruby and Peter, carefree and laughing on their wedding day.

Ruby’s hands tremble now, restless without something to hold onto, and Mary Margaret catches them in her own, squeezing tightly. “Are you hungry?” she says, and Ruby shakes her head, still blinking back tears. “You’ve hardly eaten in days.”

Ruby’s voice is small and vulnerable, like a child’s. “I’m fine.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t believe her, but knows better than to fight it. Over the past days, their roles have been reversed – where Ruby had been caring for Mary Margaret, pulling her back into the world from the dark depths of her despair, now it’s time for Mary Margaret to become the caretaker. “Let’s rest then,” she suggests, though she knows Ruby has hardly slept since the telegram arrived.

Ruby nods, but doesn’t speak, simply following her friend’s lead as Mary Margaret eases her into the bed and pulls the covers up over her shoulders.

Dimly, Mary Margaret thinks that there are things she should be doing, preparations she should be making – not just for her own child, growing slowly but demandingly present within her – but also for Ruby’s life as a widow. Because there must be some change; there must be some earth-shattering disruption in their lives at such a loss, something more than a standard telegram and a neatly folded flag. Somehow, Peter’s death must be present in their day-to-day existence.

And yet … somehow it hasn’t. How can it? When they’ve been without their husbands for so long? When they’ve both spent more time praying for their husband’s safety from halfway round the world than they ever did in their marriage beds?

And then Ruby sobs, a deep, heart-wrenching howl from beneath her cocoon of quilts and blankets, and Mary Margaret knows – she _knows_ – that nothing will ever be the same again. Even if for the months ( _years?_ ) to come, they will pass the days and nights much the same as they had the days and nights before, Ruby's life – and the lives of thousands upon thousands of men and women across the country – will always exist in the shadow of loss.

"Oh, Ruby..." Mary Margaret sighs, feeling a wave of grief and compassion washing over her as she eases into bed alongside her friend and pulls her close, Ruby's face turned into the curve of her neck. The sobs wrack her body for a long while, the mattress trembling in sympathy, until finally exhaustion claims her, and she is quiet and still.

Mary Margaret turns to press a kiss to Ruby's temple, and wonders when the war will be over.

(And fears that perhaps it never will.)

But even through the loss - the pain, the sadness, the _anguish_ \- through everything, hope still remains.  They’re still here,  as evidenced by the soft hitching of Ruby’s breath, the pounding of her own heart.  Hope is here,  drumming into the world with every tiny kick Emma makes between them.

_Emma_.  She hadn’t thought of a name until now.

Emma it is, then.

\--

_"Wake up."_

David wakes, blinking and straining to hear past the incessant ringing in his ears. Everything hurts – his shoulder, his side – and the world around him spins and blurs. He squeezes his eyes shut again, willing the world to stop moving, and sifts through his memory to piece together the chain of events that has brought him here.

"There you are." The voice is female, softened by a British accent – though when the blur of color in her place sharpens to a clear image, he notices she's wearing an American uniform. She looks exhausted -  what appear to have once been impeccable victory rolls now mussed and unkempt, the faint stain of Victory Red lipstick only barely visible on her lips – and he wonders how many soldiers she's sat beside today; how many of those soldiers didn't make it. She offers him a flask. "Water," she clarifies, when he doesn't accept it at first. "You're rather beat up but you'll live."

David frowns, the events of the night before – has it really been that long? - coming together in his mind: standing in line for the transatlantic with Killian, the air raid sirens, the race for safety. "There was a raid," he says blandly. He tries to push himself up to a sitting position, but his side and shoulder burn harder at the movement.

"Good," the woman says, though he feels her definition of 'good' has been severely altered by the war. She slips an arm under his shoulders and helps him prop up, before holding the flask of water to his lips. "At least your head's made it relatively unscathed."

David drinks gratefully, the liquid burning then soothing his parched throat. He realizes then that he's in the infirmary tent, which – despite every cot being full – is significantly less occupied than he'd expect following such a raid. "How long-- ?"

"You've been unconscious for the better part of two days," she explains, helping him to lie back down. "Took some shrapnel, but the medics think you'll be back to fighting shape in no time." She frowns a little at that, as if she disapproves. "You came to a few times, when they were removing the shrapnel, I suppose. You called out for a 'Margaret', and they assumed you must have meant me."

"Mary Margaret," David explains, his voice no longer scratchy and strained. "My wife."

The woman – Margaret, he presumes – smiles. "Well, your wife will be glad to hear that you'll be just fine. If you'd like to write to her, I can make sure your letter gets out with tonight's mail run." He notices that there is a pad of paper and a pen on a table nearby.

"I'd like that. Thank you, Margaret."

She purses her lips at that. "It's my pleasure, soldier. And I prefer 'Peggy'."

\-- 

The doorbell rings, and Mary Margaret groans. Getting up has become decidedly more difficult, and while she isn't entirely prepared for the responsibilities that motherhood entails, she is more than ready to be done with pregnancy: her ankles have seemingly doubled in size and exhaustion has overtaken every aspect of her life. She half rolls off the sofa to make it to her feet, and the doorbell rings again while just before she's able to pull the door open.

“Mrs. Nolan,” Gold says in way of greeting, and his eyes immediately focus on the swell of her belly.  She hadn’t exactly been hiding the fact, but following the accident she hadn’t been exactly forthcoming either.  “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Instinctively, her hand moves to the bump.  “I suppose they are.”

He smiles genuinely.  “How much longer?”

"A month," she says. "Maybe a bit more."

"Children truly are a blessing," he says, though his voice is tinged with sadness. "Be sure to treasure him every moment."

"Her," Mary Margaret corrects on instinct.

"Her? You can't possibly know that."

"I just know," Mary Margaret says.

Gold looks amused by that, but doesn't bother to argue. "And what of your husband? How is he?"

Still alive, she thinks, though the alternative to that statement makes her blood run cold. "Still in Europe," she says instead.

"A pity that he isn't here," Gold says, leaning past her to take the envelope labeled 'RENT' from the table by the door. "Let him know my thoughts are with him," he adds, "and congratulations again."

Gold leaves, and Mary Margaret feels David's absence more acutely than ever.

\--

"Looks like you dodged a bullet, mate."

David looks up, having just finished his letter home to Mary Margaret, to find Killian hovering over his infirmary bed.

"A bullet," David repeats wryly, remembering the bombs dropping from the sky. "So that's what we're calling those."

Killian laughs humorlessly and perches on the edge of the bunk. He has his hand tucked into the opening of his jacket, and David notices that it's been wrapped haphazardly with linen – surely not the work of the skilled nurses and medics here.

"Your hand--"

"Oh, this?" Killian pulls his hand a little further out, though not all the way. "Just caught a bit of shrapnel. Couldn't let it keep me down long. Been in and out of this bloody tent for my own men. I was pretty relieved to see your sorry arse passed out here."

David feels a little less awkward to know that this British officer isn't making a sick call to him on a purely social basis – he feels useless enough trapped here waiting to be declared fit for duty again, and he would be sorely disappointed to find his friend shirking responsibilities when there's a war on. "So your guys made it out of here before me then?" he says with a hint of jealousy.

Killian's expression grows solemn, and he lowers his eyes. "In a manner of speaking."

And David isn't sure what to say to that, punched in the gut by the reality of their situation – the reality of a world at war where life is just waiting to end. He thinks of his brother, and what the commanding officer must have gone through that day; he wonders how many other men were lost then, how many suffered and how many slipped away in the blink of an eye. "I'm sorry," he says, and wishes there were more that can be said.

"Me too."

\--

Carpentry, Mary Margaret decides, is not a skill best pursued while pregnant.

She already has a bassinet, of course, a hand-me-down from Ashley whose little Alexandra had far outgrown its use. And, Ashley added longingly, it's not as if they'll be needing it anytime soon. Like David, Sean had yet to return from the frontlines. (Mary Margaret thinks maybe it's a sign of the times, how they find relief and safety in their husbands still fighting, because the alternative is so horribly grim.)

The bassinet is lovely, but Mary Margaret knows there will come a time when Emma will need a real crib, something sturdy and all her own. Yes, the crib is used, something picked up at the secondhand store, but between the necessary repairs and the painting and embellishing Mary Margaret has planned, it will be a crib fit for a princess.

Of course, repairing the rails would be much easier if her hands reached a bit further beyond her growing bump.

The front door opens and Ruby rushes in. "Sorry I'm late," she says, smiling broadly for the first time since the memorial service. "But we have a surprise for you."  
   
Mary Margaret frowns and abandons her efforts on the crib. "A surprise?"

Granny follows Ruby into the apartment, a box under one arm and a bag in the other. "We've brought presents," she says, quick to get comfortable on the couch with Ruby, while Mary Margaret doesn't bother to get up from the floor, knowing it will take much longer than should be necessary.

"Presents? Oh, Granny, you didn't--"

"I didn't have to, but I wanted to," Granny insists, not even giving Mary Margaret the chance to finish. "And besides, only one was my idea." With that, she hands over the bag she'd brought in.

Mary Margaret accepts the bag, tears stinging her eyes. Damn hormones. "Thank you." Inside, she finds a cream-colored knitted blanket, laced with a purple satin ribbon. In the corner of the blanket, the name 'Emma' is lovingly embroidered. "Oh," she breathes, truly speechless at such an incredible gift. It smells of cinnamon and apples, and she knows Granny has made it by hand.

"Ruby said you were decided on the name," Granny explains, then adds with mock severity, "I sure hope you're right about it being a girl."

"I'm sure," Mary Margaret promises, though she can tell from the hint of a smile playing at the corners of Granny's mouth that she's teasing. "Thank you so much. This is – this is perfect. Thank you."

Granny bends over, and Mary Margaret leans into her as the older woman drops a kiss to the top of her head.

"And this," Ruby enthuses, handing Mary Margaret the box, "is from both of us." The box is heavier than Mary Margaret expected. "And Leroy," she adds as an afterthought. "Mr. Gold too, if you count that he gave us a good price."

Mary Margaret frowns, wondering what the mystery gift could be. She undoes the meager wrapping – a page from yesterday's newspapers; want not, waste not, after all – and opens the box to find a lightly used camera.

She doesn't have time to respond before Ruby is explaining rapidly, her excitement getting the better of her. "We all chipped in – me and Granny and Leroy – and I haggled with Mr. Gold, but it didn't take much once he knew who it was for. (You know how he has a soft spot for you.) I thought it would be perfect for you to send David pictures of Emma without having to take her to have them done. And this way he doesn't have to miss a thing because you can--"

Granny cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder, but Mary Margaret continues to gape at the enormity of the gift she's just been given. She isn't sure if it's the hormones still, or if she'd be crying regardless, but she can't stop the tears this time at all. "Oh, Ruby. I can't – I don't even know what to say."

"Don't say anything," Ruby insists, then bends to help her friend up from the floor. Mary Margaret catches her in a tight hug, wondering what she's ever done to deserve a friend like Ruby. "This is what aunts do, right?"

Mary Margaret squeezes tighter. "Thank you," she says.

"Don't thank me," Ruby reiterates. "Just step back and let's get a picture of you for David. I'm sure he's dying to see you like this."

Mary Margaret isn't so sure about that, feeling like she's ballooned to twice her size, but she steps back behind the half-constructed crib and turns to show her profile, her hand sliding under the curve of her bump. Ruby fetches the camera and - "One … two … three," - snaps a picture.

\--

 

It's been nearly a week, and David's wounds are considered to be on the mend. The stitches itch and the pain is still ever-present, but the shrapnel he took to his side and shoulder are far from enough to send him back home stateside, and the medics are fairly certain that in a week or so he can get back to the frontlines. His unit has moved on, but apparently another unit is leaving in 10 days to join them. If all goes well with his injuries, he will be able to join the auxiliary unit and regroup with his own men.

They've released him from the confines of the infirmary tent, but he's found that his time is better spent there than unable to fight elsewhere. The raid had taken more than just battle troops, and the medic team had been hit particularly hard. They were short-handed in the aftermath, grabbing help from whoever was qualified to give it; he'd discovered that the woman – Peggy – who had been with him when he woke was actually a U.S. intelligence officer, but she had driven an ambulance in the early years of the war. Proof, David thinks, that when lives are on the line, rank and pay grade cease to matter.

So David helps restock supplies, gives blood when a transfusion is needed, and helps to keep morale up amongst those who are more wounded than he. It isn't exactly how he'd hoped to serve his country, but he feels he has a purpose in this role regardless.

He's in the midst of a rousing game of poker (where he's sure to lose all his rations' worth of cigarettes – luckily he doesn't smoke) when two British soldiers come rushing in, a British officer slumped between them.

"He just passed out," one of the young men explains to the nurse that comes to their aid, "and we couldn't wake him."

David glances over his shoulder, and is about to return to losing all his rations when he catches sight of the blackened bandage around the officer's hand and stops to take a closer look.

Killian.

"Has he been feeling ill?" he hears the nurse ask, but before the young soldiers can answer, David is there, helping to lift Killian's weight onto the nearest cot.

"His hand," David explains. "He said he got a bit of shrapnel to it but it wasn't worth looking at." He looks at Killian's hand now, how the makeshift bandage is discolored and clinging unnaturally to the flesh.

The nurse immediately sets to unwrapping the linen, and Killian still does not stir. The last of it falls away, and David feels faint. One of the young men goes white as a sheet, wavering on his feet; the other covers his mouth with his hand as if he might be sick. The nurse swallows thickly, and takes a deep breath before shouting for a doctor.

What Killian had described as 'a bit' of shrapnel must have amounted to a generous spattering across his entire hand. He was lucky not to lose it altogether. But now infection has set in, and the wounds are black and gangrenous, giving off a foul odor that permeates the infirmary tent. David isn't sure how something so serious could go unnoticed for so long, but he knows that Killian is a man bound by duty and revenge, and he would not have revealed anything that might have taken him out of the fight.

The idiot.

The doctor is there quickly, and after only a brief examination, he is able to offer a course of treatment. "We're going to have to amputate."

\--

'It's too soon,' is all Mary Margaret can think as she paces the length of the apartment.

She isn't ready, she's decided. Not because she lacks the maternal instincts necessary to be a mother, but because this isn't how this was meant to happen. David isn't here. They'd married days before leaving for training, and they have yet to have time to build their life together – to build a home, to enjoy their marriage. And she's okay with that; it's something she had come to terms with the moment she enlisted. But she still cannot face the fact that their child may grow up without him, that no matter what, the war is far from over and David will miss everything – her first steps, her first words, her first smile. He'll miss it all.

It's simply too soon.

Unfortunately, Emma doesn't know that. A wave of pain overcomes Mary Margaret, and she knows that 'too soon' or not, this is happening _now_.

She hears the sound of the key scraping in the lock, and is at the front door, bag in hand, when Ruby walks in, exhausted from her shift at Granny's.

"Mary Margaret? Wha--"

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath. "The baby," she says. "She's coming."

 


End file.
